


Filthy Animals

by GhostofBambi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detectives, F/M, London
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:15:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 65,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostofBambi/pseuds/GhostofBambi
Summary: James Potter is a talented young detective who's used to doing whatever he wants. When his new boss, DCI McGonagall, tires of his troublemaker ways, she hires her brilliant protégée, Lily Evans, to keep him under control. Now, if only Lily could control herself...





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by that most excellent of comedies, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, except it's set in a fictional Criminal Investigation Department in a police station in London. I have done a lot of research into the inner workings of the British police force, thanks to an in-law of mine with insider knowledge, but I've still taken a few liberties to write this story. As a precursor to the action, I'll warn you all that Lily, James and their friends are in their mid-to-late twenties, so there is adult language and light-to-middling smut involved. That said, this story is a romance, and there'll be plenty of that.
> 
> You don't need to have watched Brooklyn Nine-Nine to read this. This story is also fully completed, and I will update its chapters once a week.
> 
> Circle-Jerking: My thanks and love go out to the brilliant cgner – to whom Algernon must always be attributed, and who was enthusiastic about this idea from the very first. Happy Birthday, my dear friend! Enjoy your gift! I also want to thank Captain Mai (my Marvel super-heroine of choice) and my beloved proofreader, Lady Katie (the Sansa to my Arya), for their support and willingness to read scenes. My life would be far less magical without the three of them.

**CHAPTER ONE**

_It is March 9th, 2015. Filthy rich, lifelong-Londoner James Potter will be twenty-seven-years-old in eighteen days, and Lily Evans, who split up from her boyfriend six months prior, lives with her father in the city of perspiring dreams. Meanwhile, a very important woman starts a very important job._

On a March morning that was cold, dry and unremarkable in every other aspect, Minerva McGonagall began her first day as Detective Chief Inspector at the age of fifty-two. It was, therefore, a remarkable day for her, and a very unlucky day for the criminals of Holborn and its surrounding areas, for Minerva – so named for the Roman goddess of wisdom, war, arts, school and commerce – was an impressive personage in all ways.

She stood as tall as most men, wore fine tailored suits and could throw a cracking right-hook when occasion called for it. Her sharp green eyes observed the world behind silver spectacles and seldom did they miss a thing. Her talent for holding a room's attention had few equals, and if her will was made of iron, her wit was sharpened steel. Most of her friends and colleagues agreed; those who didn't often labelled her - bossy, frigid, bitch, and other titles born of misogyny, but she had grown impervious to such maliciousness.

Law enforcement remained a male-dominated playground despite decades of evolution, but it never prevented Minerva from soaring, even though it slowed the progress. In the eighties, Minerva's colleagues beleaguered her with facile jokes about her sex. Some requested cups of tea, some patted her bottom, but all would be embarrassed by her superiority in the end. After thirty years on the force she had been hand-selected for this prestigious position, a long-held dream finally realised. She was, in fact, so determined to take the job that she left Cambridge - a city for which she felt an affection that could only be rivalled by her birthplace, the Scottish county of Caithness – and moved to London. She detested London, with its noise and its congestion, but she would have flown to Timbuktu for her job, so she bade goodbye to her cosy house that overlooked the river, kissed her rowdy nephews on their ruddy cheeks, and left.

Now in Holborn, on the verge of a new accomplishment, Minerva entered the Criminal Investigation Department with all the assurance of age and experience, her polished heels clicking against the floor with military rhythm.

Her kingdom was a bleak concoction of blues and greys bathed in unflattering, urine-tinged light. Due to the earliness of the hour she had expected silence, but her quiet repose was shattered by the two young men she met in the centre of the room. Amongst the vinyl-covered MDF desks, tattered swivel chairs and sticky mugs of yesterday's coffee they stood – or rather, they perched – atop two chairs, laughing uproariously as each tried to knock the other down with fat manila folders.

One of them, the taller of the two, spun wildly off course, crashed into a nearby desk and sent a stack of papers fluttering to the ground.

Minerva's eyelid twitched.

* * *

_It is March 10th, 2015, and Minerva McGonagall has done a fine job of settling in to her new office. Beatrice Booth, a police administrator, is twenty-eight-years-old. She is an exquisite beauty, a talented ballerina and possesses considerable psychic powers – or so she believes. James Potter will be twenty-seven-years-old in seventeen days, and Lily Evans is about to receive a phone call that will change her life forever._

"I'd like to know more about my detectives," said McGonagall.

"You're asking the right person," Beatrice Booth – named for Beatrice di Folco Portinari, the unrequited love and muse of Dante Alighieri – assured her. "I'll sit, if you don't mind."

Her new boss extended her hand across the desk to indicate that she should feel free, and so Beatrice lowered herself into the chair opposite with a straight back, and crossed one long, brown, diligently moisturised leg over the other. People often remarked that Beatrice was a model of poise and elegance, nobody more so than the lady herself. She laid her own hand upon McGonagall's desk and ran her fingers along the grain. "This desk is very lovely," she remarked with sincerity. The colour fell between rust and chocolate, and it had an unpolished finish that only added to its charm. Beatrice especially enjoyed the backdrop it presented to her slender brown hand and freshly manicured nails, painted in her preferred shade of gold. "Is it custom made?"

McGonagall nodded. "Reclaimed Douglas Fir. I found it in a small furniture shop in Tacoma on a family trip to the States, and my brother was kind enough to purchase it for me. The cost of shipping was outrageous, but he wouldn't be dissuaded."

"He sounds kinder than my brother. Or wealthier. I like it – the desk, I mean. Your office is much nicer than the stereotypical DCI setup."

"What's the stereotypical DCI setup?"

"Oh, you know, polished mahogany and a shelf full of dusty encyclopaedias? Interior design can tell you a lot about a person."

In the experience of Beatrice Booth, people presented themselves in one of two ways – who they knew they were, or who they wanted people to believe they were. McGonagall, who on the surface appeared as staid and unyielding as a frozen pond, slid easily into the former end of the scale. Her office was adorned with family photographs and trinkets from her native country; like the tartan biscuit tin, the calendar that showcased the scenery of Caithness, and the large, misshapen mug - clearly homemade - that had been painted in a childish hand, bearing the words _Auntie Minnie_ in lurid green letters. Beatrice had known that she would like McGonagall from the very moment she clapped eyes on that mug.

"Do I detect a hint of a West Country accent?" said McGonagall.

"Somerset born and bred, I am. I come from a little town called Chard. It's very cute. Very quaint. Dull. London's my place."

"But you got your looks from another country."

"Ciertamente, my mother is Spanish, from Pamplona. She and my father live there with my little sister."

"Do you get to visit often?"

"Whenever they're willing to pay for it. Do you get back to Scotland often?"

"As often as I can." McGonagall slid her biscuit tin across her desk. "Have a biscuit. For how long have you been working here?"

Beatrice reached into the tin and removed a sugary shortbread finger. "I started almost as soon as I moved to London, so ten years. DCI Minchum was in charge then. He set me to making tea and filing paperwork, but now I basically run the office. It couldn't operate without me."

"As I see from these recommendations," said McGonagall, indicating towards a pile of papers that lay her near elbow. "I won't set you to making tea, I can assure you."

"Don't make it anyway. I'll make it for you, but the boys can get stuffed. They're capable of sustaining themselves without flooding the station."

The corners of McGonagall's lips twitched upwards.

"So," Beatrice continued, her confidence in McGonagall's approval of her growing. "What exactly do you want to know about the boys?"

"Anything that I can't learn from these files. I observed them yesterday, but new employees can be guarded. I'd rather hear about them from a person with whom they feel more comfortable."

"Then I'm your girl. They're all men, so there isn't much to any of them."

McGonagall rewarded her with a genuine smile this time, and Beatrice knew that she had been won. They had come to an understanding, she and this sharp, formidable, very serious woman – so serious that even the sleek, black knob of hair at the back of her head dared not misbehave.

In ten years, Beatrice Booth had worked beneath two DCIs, Harold Minchum and Cornelius Fudge. Both men treated her like a glorified waitress, a pretty, perambulating kettle designed to appear when summoned with a hot drink and a winning smile, tight skirt not required but preferable. Fudge, McGonagall's predecessor, a man in his sixties with three adult children, would often suggest that Beatrice, his leggy brunette, would find a nice husband if she dyed her hair blonde. Three detectives in his employ watched her feed Fudge's festive green bowler hat into a paper shredder at the previous year's Christmas shindig, and not one of them had given her up. The boys were loyal to Beatrice, and her alone.

"Tell me about Detective Constable Black," said McGonagall, studying a sheet of paper that undoubtedly held Detective Constable Black's details. "Whatever I can't learn from this."

"Sure," Beatrice agreed. She swung her chair around and pointed to her left. The wall that separated McGonagall's office from the bullpen was floor-to-ceiling glass, and Sirius Black – named for the brightest star in the night sky – was clearly visible through the open blinds, lounging idly in his chair. "So, as you'll have noticed, Sirius was unfairly blessed with old-Hollywood good looks, and he's hyper aware of it. He pretends that he isn't, but he is. That out-of-work musician look he's rocking is totally deliberate. Not my type, but there you go."

"I'm not a fan of long hair on men," said McGonagall disapprovingly. Beatrice snorted.

"Please, tell him that often. He's very good at his job, which you'll know, but he thinks he's Will Smith in a cop movie and that he's fighting the establishment from within. He got in a spot of trouble for roughhousing before he came to the CID, but nothing so serious that it ended up on his record. He's smart, though, and he's passionate about putting criminals in prison. You can't fault his dedication. If you want my advice, I'd put him on cases with DC Lupin – he doesn't take any of Black's nonsense."

"And what else can you tell me about Lupin?"

Remus Lupin – named after one of the founders of Rome by his parents, both of whom were history enthusiasts – sat at the desk adjacent to Black's. Remus was no match for Black in the looks department, but he had his own charms. His eyes were intelligent, and the prematurely grey streaks in his sandy brown hair gave him a refined, scholarly air. "You can't fault Remus, really. He's a sweetheart. I don't know what you've got on him in those files but it's worth mentioning that he's very sensible, very diligent and very consistent. The reason he handles most of our sexual assault call-ins is because he's the next best thing to a female detective. He knows how to put people at ease. People feel comfortable around him."

"I see that he's had health problems in the past?"

"That's why he gave up the regular beat and came here. A less action-packed role suits him better. You'll like him."

"You certainly seem to."

"Well, I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crisps, but I'm ever the professional."

She smiled over at her shoulder at McGonagall, who was completely unperturbed by this confession. "What about the others?"

"Let's see, who do we have left?" said Beatrice, and spied Peter Pettigrew – named for his father and _his_ father before him – a portly blonde with an upturned nose, buttoning his coat. "Don't ask Pettigrew about food and especially don't ask him about restaurants, because he _will_ start harassing you to follow his food blog, _Pain au Pettigrew_. Don't let him have your personal email, either. He'll spam you with links."

"Does he know what he's talking about?"

"Yes, but we don't like to encourage him. Bless him, he's committed, though. He's a hard worker and you'll never have to chase him for his paperwork. You'll be chasing DC Lockhart all the time." Gilderoy Lockhart – named for an infamous Scottish outlaw he bore no resemblance to – was next to Peter, checking his foppish mane of wavy blonde, Hugh Grant inspired hair in the back of a teaspoon. "Lockhart's alright, nothing special, never been good enough to make DS even though he's been here for donkey's years. He works mostly with Sluggy. Slughorn, I mean."

"Where is Slughorn?"

"Out getting food, I assume. He's basically checked out at this stage, leaves most of the work to the boys. You'll find that we're a very young branch. Sluggy and Lockhart are the only detectives who've been here since before I started."

"Very well," said McGonagall. She shuffled her papers, and clucked. "So, that only leaves the young gentleman who greeted me by free-falling into a desk yesterday."

"Potter's the best detective you've got," said Beatrice, with much confidence in her words, but at that very moment, James Potter – so named because his father had a stupid name and didn't wish to subject his son to bullying – hurtled by the window, lassoed to his chair with a telephone wire as he sped towards Black, or inevitable injury, at high speed. She sighed. "Although it's just like him to make himself look bad while I'm in the middle of praising him."

"That's my best detective, is it?" said McGonagall. Beatrice turned to face her. "He doesn't seem intent upon impressing that fact upon me."

"Well, he's a moron," Beatrice explained. "A moron _and_ a great detective, the latter you'll already know because you've seen his record. Solve rates, court performance, all brilliant. He's already a Detective Sergeant and he's only twenty-six. He's even got a genius IQ, as he frequently likes to remind us."

"And you believe that?"

"Yeah, I do. Potter doesn't lie. He likes to boast, but only about things that he can back up with fact. He acts like a tit most of the time, but he is genuinely brilliant. His problem is that he's had no discipline, and he's never worked beneath a superior who didn't let him do whatever he wanted. Slughorn can't even control his own diet, let alone his team, so he's been no use at all. But Potter's fine, really. He just needs taking in hand, and he needs to be kept away from Black when he's working."

"Don't they get along? They seemed to be having a good time when I walked in here yesterday."

"Oh, yeah, they're best mates. They even live together, so they should be able to survive if you keep them apart at work."

"Well then," said McGonagall, gathering her papers together in an orderly little pile. "I owe you my gratitude, Booth. Thanks to your information, I've finally figured out what I dislike about this branch."

"Which is?"

"It's almost entirely male," she replied, with a thin crease between her arched brows. She pushed the biscuit tin back to Beatrice with one hand and picked up her telephone with the other. "And that's entirely unacceptable. Help yourself to another biscuit, I have a few calls to make."

* * *

_It is March 23rd, 2015, and Minerva McGonagall has been enjoying her new position for two weeks, aided by the ever-brilliant Beatrice Booth. James Potter will be twenty-seven-years-old in four days, and has no idea that he is about to be dazzled, wholly and irrevocably. Meanwhile, Lily Evans, who we are about to meet for the first time, has spent the past fortnight overhauling her life._

When the alarm went off that morning – a cheerful, calypso tune that she had naively hoped would start her day with a smile – Lily Evans knocked over a glass of water in her haste to silence it, then stepped in the puddle when she got out of bed. Her new tights formed a gaping ladder as soon as she pulled them on and so she was forced to shave her legs, an arduous task for a half-asleep woman. She nicked a sensitive spot by her ankle and wasted precious minutes patching it up.

"Shit!" she cried when, having raced to her door in a rush, she fell over the disassembled tent that lay in the hallway, an unwanted, unused remnant of a dead relationship. "You stupid, buggering fuck!"

The tent simply lay there and refused to apologise, and as Lily was of no mind to apply logic to her feelings she kicked it before she left, her nerves in shambles. She was having an awful morning of the highest degree.

But Lily – so named for the flower her late mother had adored – couldn't afford to have an awful morning of any degree. It was her first day in her new job and her first week in an old city. Her family had left London nine years prior and Lily had not visited in five, so her once encyclopaedic knowledge of its transport system had grown rusty with misuse. As it happened, she overestimated her travel time and arrived at Holborn tube station with an hour to spare. Her right knee smarted, reminding her that she had faceplanted in her flat for nothing.

She choked down an Egg McMuffin and a blistering, flavourless cup of tea in a nearby McDonald's before she walked to the station. She stopped to check Google Maps only once, which she considered a triumph, and had regained her composure by the time she arrived. A stringy-looking uniformed officer showed her to the CID and boldly asked her to go for a drink with him later. Eyeing the shiny gold ring on his wedding finger, she refused politely and left him to go home to his unsuspecting wife.

She found Minerva McGonagall in her office.

"Good morning," she said, her voice ringing in the silence, and McGonagall sprang to her feet with the sprightliness of a much younger woman.

"I knew you'd be here early, Evans," she said, and held out her hand. "Welcome. I trust you found the place easily?"

A well-worn novel – _The Handmaid's Tale_ – lay bookmarked on McGonagall's desk, next to a steaming mug of tea. She'd been having one of her human moments, a term that Lily had coined but never dared speak aloud. In Cambridge, McGonagall's presence at the station was omnipotent, so much so that it was difficult to picture her in everyday situations. She was to Lily what Jo March had been to her as a child, a heroine, an idealised version of the person she wanted to be. Lily could recall the day they met in a Waitrose, and how inelegantly shocked she was to see McGonagall in the real world, the same feeling she'd experienced years earlier when she and her mates bumped into their French teacher at Alton Towers and realised that he had a life outside of masculine and feminine nouns.

Sometimes, it was easier to believe that McGonagall simply vanished in a puff of smoke o' nights and reappeared in an otherworldly realm that regular, unremarkable people had no hope of entering. Lily had always wanted to be remarkable and she had especially wanted to be a heroine, an ambition she struggled with until she moved to Cambridge and decided to follow in her father's footsteps by joining the police.

She rushed to take McGonagall's hand, beaming like an overeager Miss Universe contestant. "I did. Thank you so much, sir… for the opportunity. I'm so excited to be here. Thank you – again."

"Please, sit," said McGonagall, and moved to her office door. "Have a biscuit. I'll just get you a cup of tea. Milk and sweetener, as I recall?"

Lily nodded, momentarily overjoyed by the knowledge that the woman she hero-worshipped knew how she took her tea and was actively engaged in making it for her, and McGonagall swept from the room. She sat down, noticing as she did that the calendar she had bought McGonagall for Christmas was hanging proudly on the wall. She reminded herself to refrain from demonstrating her pleasure in a manner that would be considered rude when McGonagall returned, such as pointing it out, or bursting into tears.

Lily had been the same – always looking up to some feminist icon – since her childhood. Her mother was the first, followed by a plethora of fictional allies and their creators, and finally McGonagall, who taught her to become her own icon. It was a lesson that Lily tried and succeeded to live by, although she couldn't quite get over the passionate attachment she felt to her mentor. Her decision to leave Cambridge and join McGonagall in London had been lightning-quick and excitable. "Yes!" she had squealed down the telephone before McGonagall could finish the question, and what followed was an unexpectedly smooth transition. She emptied her savings, found a very nice flat in Colindale, purchased half of IKEA and started her new life, just her and her tuxedo cat, with little fuss.

Naturally, she believed a catastrophe was imminent. Perhaps McGonagall had hired her by mistake. Perhaps she had asked Lily to come as a guest, not an employee, and now felt too awkward to reveal the truth. Perhaps her landlord would reveal himself as the leader of a drug cartel and her flat concealed crucial evidence, for everything had gone too smoothly to be allowable and Lily was certain that she wouldn't feel comfortable until some disaster fell into her lap.

McGonagall entered the office with her tea, and bade her once more to take a biscuit, which Lily did. Her on-the-fly breakfast hadn't been particularly satisfying.

"So," said McGonagall, returning to her seat. "How was the big move?"

"It was good." She hastily swallowed a mouthful of shortbread. "I moved in yesterday, Dad and one of his mates drove me down in the van."

"And how's the flat?"

"Oh, it's lovely. Thank you so much for recommending it."

"Oh, don't thank me, thank Booth when she comes in. She's the one who found it. Have you unpacked?"

"Nearly, I just have a little bit left to do."

Lily had done nothing, in truth, but collapse into bed the night before. Her new living room was overflowing with boxes and the boxes were overflowing with clothes, books, crockery and things that Petunia insisted she would need. Her elder sister – the ultimate consumer – was a routine buyer of expensive kitchen gadgets and complicated exercise machines. She was the type who kept fine china for special occasions, but for whom no occasion was special enough.

To celebrate Lily's move, she gifted her with a sewing machine and a bread maker. Lily didn't sew, and she bought her bread from the shops for 90p like a regular person. Petunia, who lived in a neat, detached house with her bulbous husband, liked to talk of loft conversions, patio furnishings and other things that Lily didn't have. It seemed to give her great satisfaction.

"I hope the suddenness of my request didn't put you through any trouble."

"No, not at all. There was nothing keeping me in Cambridge, aside from Dad and some mates, and it's only sixty miles away on the train."

"Are you looking forward to reconnecting with all of your old friends?"

"Well…" Most of her friends at school had drifted away from her after she left London, excepting Mary MacDonald, and Lily had unintentionally ruined her relationship with the only other person who was worth a damn. "Actually, my friend Mary's moving back here in August. She's been in Australia for five years, so that'll be nice."

"Good, well, I hope you settle in quickly. I have to say, I'm delighted that you chose to join us."

Lily coloured. "Are you really?"

"Yes, of course. Does that surprise you?"

"To be honest, I assumed that you'd ask someone older and more experienced, if you were going to ask anyone at all. Jorkins was a little upset that you didn't ask her."

"Oh, I don't give a toss about Bertha Jorkins, that odious gossip," said McGonagall. "You may be young, Evans, but you're the best detective I've worked with in a very long time."

"I – thank you. That's very kind."

"It's not kindness, it's truth. The team should come in soon. They're aware that we have a new DS starting today so I expect everyone to arrive early."

"I'm looking forward to meeting them."

"You say that now," McGonagall sighed. "Reserve your judgement for when you meet your partner. He's a bit of a handful."

"Oh?"

"I should warn you about him before you get to work," said McGonagall, leaning forward on her elbows. "He's good at his job – very good – but he's a damned fool. He pulls pranks on his colleagues and arranges silly games for the office to participate in when he should be engaging his talents more productively. Last week, he had the whole bullpen – including a witness and the cleaning lady – standing on the desks and pretending the floor was lava. The week before that, I went twelve rounds with him because he refuses to wear a tie. I've even caught him playing with action figures at his desk."

Lily liked the sound of him immediately. She arranged her features into a look of disapproval. "How childish."

"Yes," McGonagall agreed. "You can only imagine the trouble I've had with him, Evans. I want this branch to be the best in London, which means I need him to pull his socks up and really apply himself, so here's what I propose – you partner him for a trial period of six months, working on cases as co-primaries. Everyone else in this office encourages his behaviour but I know you, and I know you'll be able to handle him. When the six months are up, you'll have your pick of the bullpen."

Lily turned this idea over in her head, shifting uncomfortably. "So, essentially, I'll be on babysitting duty?"

"No. No, the reason I'm partnering the two of you is to provide him with an example of how an exceptional DS ought to behave. No babysitting involved. I think you'll be a good influence. He's your age and he's shown no resistance to working with women." Like some, she might have added. Lily had experienced enough in-office sexism to read between the lines.

"You're sure?"

"He seems like a sweet boy."

"But you say he acts out?"

"In silly, time-consuming ways, but there isn't a spark of malice in him."

"Well, then." Lily shrugged. "I've dealt with unruly boys before. Why not?"

"Excellent. That's settled. I imagine the team should be here soon. Booth will show you around, and then we can get you to work immediately. I've set up a desk for you next to Po—what on _earth_ are they doing?"

Of all the potential surprises that Lily could have expected on her first day at a new job, she did not expect to hear Coolio's _Gangsta's Paradise_ blast through the air with the sudden intensity of cannon fire, but that was exactly what happened. She jumped; McGonagall had already risen to her feet, nostrils flaring, but otherwise showing no sign of shock. "Those fools," she hissed, and swept to her office door. "I'll be back in a moment, stay here."

She left, the door banging shut behind her, and Lily, who had swung her chair around to locate the source of the upset, rose from her seat and went to the window. McGonagall's blinds were closed, so Lily had to poke her finger through a gap and peep through to see what was happening.

A man was perched on the edge of a nearby desk, doubled over with laughter, his long black hair falling elegantly over his eyes as he gasped for breath. He wore a leather jacket and one arm was slung across a ghetto blaster. It vibrated with the force of the music it emitted. Behind him, another man had entered the office. He was walking in slow motion, his face obscured by oversized comedy sunglasses. He stopped walking – one leg suspended in the air like a dog relieving itself against a tree – when McGonagall reached the ghetto blaster, switched it off and angrily demanded an explanation. The sunglasses were tossed aside, revealing a smaller pair of real spectacles and a lean, brown, _familiar_ face.

Disaster struck.

"Morning, sir!" he called out in greeting, raising one hand to ruffle his hair. _Morning, Evans!_ And something within Lily – her dignity perhaps – sank quietly to the bottom of her stomach. _He_ grinned cheekily at McGonagall, unaware of the horrors to come. "Sirius and I were trying out a motivational exercise this morning."

"Consummate professionals," said the leather-clad man.

"Did you like my entrance, sir?"

"He practised it in front of the mirror."

McGonagall, who could not have known the damage she had done, folded her arms across her chest. When she spoke, her voice was low and deadly. "Pull your trousers over your underpants, Potter, this isn't the Glastonbury festival. Black, that contraption will be out of the office before the rest of the team arrives or I will sell it on the internet."

"Don't mind if you get a good price," said the man named Sirius Black, shrugging.

"Hang on," Potter interrupted. "Isn't that thievery? We're actually working to stomp that out here, sir." He pointed to his chest. "Police, see."

Lily was practically pressed against the window, a vinyl blade digging into her cheek, breath settling on the glass beneath her nose, but neither man had noticed, so she stepped back. An unwelcome shakiness had come over her, a visceral reaction that she had no hope of controlling, like a child stepping sleepily out of a nightmare. _This_ was her disaster, that face that she hadn't seen in nearly nine years, but had committed to memory and treasured as something perfect and glowing and lost to her forever. The smile, the dimples in his cheeks, the thick black brows and hazel eyes that hid some marvellous joke; nothing had been misremembered. He had not changed, not much, though he was much taller, and had lost his awkward, collapsible-ruler lankiness to broad shoulders and sturdier arms. His glasses had changed with the fashion and his jaw had become more pronounced, but still he was perfect, still glowing, still a worthy subject of her teenage fantasies. Lily had expected him to exist as a pretty recollection, forever adolescent, but James Potter had betrayed her memory and become a man.

A man who hated her, and had earned the right to do so.

"I told you both to arrive early so that you could greet the new DS," McGonagall was saying in a voice that was distant to Lily's ears. "What I don't recall is asking you to create a makeshift disco in the office, strenuous as I'm sure your efforts have been."

"But this is for the new DS," said Black. "We're trying to make him feel welcome."

"Evans!" McGonagall called. "I doubt that _she_ will find your antics amusing, Black, but let us get her opinion on the matter."

The last thing that Lily wanted to do was walk into the bullpen and throw herself in James Potter's face like a grenade, but it was McGonagall asking and she had no choice. But the girl she was, the girl who had known James Potter once upon a time, had mastered the art of maintaining a collected façade when in the presence of the boy who was in equal parts infuriating and intoxicating, and the adult she had become could not be prevailed upon to reveal her true feelings now, so she walked out and appeared to all assembled to be in complete control. James Potter saw her and recoiled as if she had stabbed him in the chest.

"Evans," he said immediately. True to his nature, Potter was not one to wallow in stunned silences.

"Yes," said McGonagall, frowning at the sudden change of atmosphere, the thickness that had settled in the air. "Black, Potter, allow me to introduce—"

"I know who she is," Potter interrupted. He looked from her to his friend, Black, but his eyes swiftly returned to her again. "Is this a joke?"

McGonagall bristled. "What nonsense are you talking about now, Potter? Evans is our newest DS and she will be joining this team, effective immediately, as you would have known if you had listened to my briefing a week ago, instead of burying your nose in your phone."

He wasn't paying attention to McGonagall. He was staring at Lily as if she was a ghost, which she was; Lily Evans, the awful, the heartless, the incredible vanishing girl, and while an outsider might have read a million other things into his expression, Lily could only see the remnants of a pain that she had been cruel enough to cause. "Lily?"

He made her name sound so pretty, she had forgotten that. She tilted her chin towards the light. "Hello, Potter."

"You work here now?"

"Yes."

He swallowed, and blinked hard, as if he might will her to vanish if he wished for it hard enough. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Alright," he said quietly, nodding to himself. "Alright."

The apology was on her lips when suddenly, marvellously, James Potter cracked a smile that was boyish and charming and as sincere as it had ever been, saving the day, and Lily was seventeen again.

"Sir!" he said to McGonagall, looking at her but pointing at Lily, right at her heart. "How did you know what I wanted for my birthday?"


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

_It is still March 23rd, 2015, and Minerva McGonagall, who saw fit to partner two bright, overachieving detectives, has discovered to her surprise that they are already familiar with one another. Lily Evans, as we know, suffered a considerable shock when she met her new partner, a man who – as it transpires – she once hurt, and may have once had feelings for. As for the man, who we have yet to hear from, he appears to have a much sunnier view on the matter._

James couldn't take his eyes off her.

"I'll never get any work done now," he said cheerfully. "There'll be bad guys running amok all over London. Minnie's really dropped the ball."

Lily's desk sat at a right angle to his desk, which provided ample opportunity for him to admire her from up close. She blushed prettily at his words but didn't offer a response, instead choosing to nod at DI Slughorn as he waddled by, his lips peppered with sugar from the crystallised pineapple he liked to eat at his desk. James watched him for a moment, walrus moustache quivering, body wobbling like a gelatinous dessert, one movement setting off another, hip to bottom to thigh in a strange, hypnotic rhythm. McGonagall had not taken kindly to Slughorn's hail-fellow-well-met approach, which seemed to be the motivating force behind Lily's appearance. James had a lot to thank him for.

He watched until Slughorn had lowered himself into his chair with the tense apprehension of a man immersing himself in cold water, and returned to Evans.

"McGonagall gave me a right talking-to this morning," he told her. "I'm the naughty child, you're the good child, and you're going to make sure that I eat all my vegetables and go to bed at a reasonable hour."

He didn't mind her silence. There had been a short time, during their adolescence, when she had ignored him for other reasons, until she hadn't.

It was all a poetic nod to his teenage years, really, those rose-tinted days spent beneath the watchful eye of a formidable head girl. Evans had no official authority over him here, but she hadn't at school – he had been head boy alongside her – and lack of authority never prevented her from extending her influence, to which his younger self had been heartily receptive. The younger James, intoxicated by lust and fat with adolescent love, had been a punch-drunk follower of Lily's every word.

McGonagall, who acted as if she was punishing James for his sins, must have liked him more than she allowed to have bestowed upon him such a glorious treat. It was no surprise. Behind the hard lines of her mouth and hidden within the depths of her shrewd eyes, James detected a motherly affection within McGonagall. He may have been the naughty child but he was also the favourite. James admired McGonagall very much in return. He had a great affection for strong women. His late mother had been one of that ilk.

Lily Evans, as ferocious a woman as James had ever met, would always appear to strangers as soft and delicate as the flower for which she had been named. She had a timeless face, a Disney face, soft and sweet and earnest in every expression that crossed it. Her skin was as pale as cream, dusted with tiny freckles, and her eyes – green as emeralds – could stop people in their tracks. Her hair was long, thick, the darkest and richest of reds, and it gleamed like fire on sunny days. Hers was the kind of beauty that children cooed over in flowery storybooks, hers was a face that an artist would paint. James had been waxing lyrical about her beauty from a young age, a process that was entirely internalised, as he was unable to reconcile the poetic thoughts in his head with the clumsy words that tumbled off his tongue. He had never met a woman who could touch her in anything.

And Sirius, utterly oblivious to the subtle masterpieces of the world, had pronounced her decent. Merely decent, as if she was a mildly satisfying Nando's.

"Have you ever been to a Nando's, Evans?"

They locked eyes, and Lily pressed her lips together. She looked incredibly pained, like she was sitting on a cactus.

"If you've never been, I'll take you, it's no skin off my nose. Do you like peri-peri chicken? I don't know what it is, exactly, but I don't think anyone else does either."

"Stop bothering her, Potter," said Beatrice Booth, who had appeared suddenly with two kitschy, purchased-on-a-party-island mugs in her hands. She set one of them down next to Evans. "Here's your tea, babes."

"What's this?" James raised his eyebrows, and lamented as always that he was unable to raise a single brow. "You never make tea for anyone except Minnie."

"And?"

"I'm scandalised."

"You're always scandalised about something, you big baby. Lily gets tea because I like her."

"You've known her for two hours."

"Female solidarity, Potter. Besides, somebody needs to compensate her for putting up with you."

"Putting up with me _is_ the compensation," said James, and stretched manfully. He hoped, spurred on by his teenage self, that Lily could see how he had developed muscles. "What's going on, Booth? You don't even make tea for Moony."

"Remus makes tea for me, Potter, because he's a gentleman and a scholar."

"Oh really?" He spun his chair around and balanced one elbow on his desk. "Is that why you gaze longingly at him when he hands you his paperwork?"

"That's because I'm happy to file paperwork that doesn't need a million corrections."

"Is that why your loins burn with unrequited love?"

"If I was in love with anyone, Potter, they wouldn't dare refrain from loving me back," said Booth flatly. "I don't love Remus, I'd just like to have sex with him."

Lily spluttered into her tea. "Sorry," she gasped, patting her chest. "It went down the wrong way."

"Look at that," said James. "She speaks to Booth, but not to me."

Lily opened her mouth but Booth swooped in to interrupt whatever wonderful thing she was going to say to him. "Listen, Lily, have a look at Remus for me. See him over there? Brown hair? Those sweet, docile eyes that hide the ravenous sexual prowess of a wolf? Are you attracted to him?"

James looked over his shoulder. Remus was tucking innocently into an egg and cress sandwich, blissfully unaware that his ravenous sexual prowess was the subject of discussion.

"No," said Lily. "He seems like a nice bloke, though."

"See?" said Booth to James, as if this explained everything. "Lily and I are going to be best friends."

"You'll be an improvement on the last one," said James cheerfully. "Right, Evans?" She gave him a look. "What? Last time we spoke, you were adamant that you never wanted to see old Snivelly again. Did you make up?"

"No, I just don't want to talk about him."

"Jesus, Potter, did your mother never teach you tact?" Beatrice pulled a chair from Lockhart's desk and positioned it next to James. She sat down and crossed her absurdly long legs, balancing her coffee on her knee. "You and Potter have the same shifts, right? So you'll be free this Saturday. We can do something in the evening, if you fancy. I figure you could use a friend in London."

"What about me?" said James.

"A friend who doesn't want to get into your knickers," Booth clarified.

"He doesn't want to do that," said Lily softly. "I'd honestly love to take you up on the offer, but I _really_ have to sort my flat out. I only moved in yesterday morning - nothing's unpacked and I've got lots of furniture to put together. I don't even have any food bought."

"Then I'll come over and help you."

"Would you?"

"Sure. I haven't got any plans."

"Well, that'd be great!" Her smile faltered. "But you don't have to. I mean, don't feel obligated or anything."

"No problem. Interior design is like, my passion."

James laughed pointedly.

"I'm actually an expert in the art of feng shui," Booth continued, ignoring him. "You know, the process of analysing the energy of your home and harmonising your surroundings? It's very nineties, but it's making a comeback. I'll be totally happy to help. And no, Potter, you're not invited."

"Er, firstly I didn't ask, because feng shui is a crock of shit," said James, to which Booth rolled her eyes. "Secondly, Evans, Booth is going to insist on reading your tarot cards, and third, you two should be nicer to me. If you hadn't noticed, it's my birthday."

"No it isn't," said Lily immediately.

"What?"

"It's not your birthday." She pressed her mug of tea against her chest, as if to draw its warmth into her body. Her face was still rosy. "Stop telling everyone that it's your birthday."

"How do you know it's not my birthday?"

"Because, your birthday is the 27th of March. That's Friday. Today is Monday. You don't get a birthday week. Nobody gets a birthday week."

"Hear that, Booth?" James elbowed Booth, accidentally splashing her with her own coffee. He ignored her outraged cry. "She hasn't seen me in nine years but she remembers my birthday! I clearly made a lasting impression."

Evans rolled her eyes. "Like you don't remember mine."

"I don't," he said innocently, but Lily didn't look convinced. "I honestly don't!" She raised an eyebrow. "It's January 30th."

She grinned, set her cup down and started typing. "If you can remember my birthday after such a long time, it's not unusual for me to remember yours."

"Yeah, well, nine years ago, I was a stupid teenager who fancied the pants off you," James pointed out. She blushed, but he tactfully ignored it. "Now I'm a man."

"Are you?"

"Har har."

"What's the deal with the two of you anyway?" said Beatrice, swinging from side to side in her chair as she dabbed herself with a tissue. "Were you a couple or something?"

"Hah!" was Lily's nervous, yet eloquent response.

"We were friends at school," James explained. "She used to borrow my colouring pencils without asking, the flirt."

As a child, James had returned from his first day at primary school and informed his mother that he was going to marry Lily Evans when he grew up and fulfilled his dream of driving the number 137 bus to Streatham Hill. His parents had found this ambition even more hilarious than the prospect of a career as a bus driver. He refrained from mentioning this to Booth, or to Evans, who to his knowledge had never been informed.

"There was more to it than that, don't be coy," said Booth, with narrowed eyes. "If you two just 'knew each other at school' you wouldn't have this weird energy between you. This _aura_ ," she added knowingly. "I have significant psychic power, Potter, as you well know. You two have some sort of history."

"We really don't."

"But you said you fancied her."

"I did. I asked her out once, but she didn't say yes. She must have terrible taste in men."

"I don't have terrible taste in men."

"Oh really? What about Snivelly?"

Lily laughed. "You know that Severus and I were just friends."

"Except he didn't want to _stay_ friends, did he?"

"I turned him down when he made his intentions clear, which _you_ know very well, since you were the first person I bloody told."

"Breaking hearts all over the place, you are."

"Did you two always bicker like this?" Booth interrupted, looking from one to the other with great amusement.

"No, actually. We used to be really close," said Lily. "He used to stay over at my house and watch _Gladiators_ on Saturday nights, when we were children. Do you remember that?"

James grinned. "We'd get so excited that we'd roll around on the carpet."

"You wanted to be Cobra and I wanted to be Lightning," said Lily, smiling. "And we'd get really bored when we had to sit through _Blind Date_."

"Remember when we made a secret potion out of the stuff in your mum's fridge?"

"Yes, I do. You drank it all as a dare."

"That was at one of your birthday parties. I got sick in your bouncy castle. Do you remember that?"

"Yes, obviously. I was in the bouncy castle with you. You got sick on _me_."

"Booth!" McGonagall called from her office. "I need you for a minute."

"You two are so cute with your stories about vomit," said Booth, and swung herself out of her chair, unfolding her long body like a deckchair. "But the boss calls, so you'll have to continue this trip down memory lane without me. Oh, Potter, speaking of birthday parties, we're all still on for Friday night, yeah?"

"Yeah, definitely. Drinks on me."

"My favourite three words," said Beatrice, bringing her hand to her heart. "You're good for something, rich boy. Are you coming, Lily? We're all going out for pizza and booze."

"I, er, yes?" said Evans, looking at him with uncertainty in her expression. "Yes, I suppose. Is that okay with you?"

"Absolutely, yes," he agreed.

"Very subtle, Potter," said Booth. "Lily, I'll add you on Facebook later."

She walked away, disappearing into the lair of the mysterious Minerva McGonagall, leaving James alone with Evans. She extracted a fat folder from the pile on her desk, opened it, and read its contents until she could no longer pretend that he wasn't watching her. He smiled sweetly at her when she looked up, massaging the back of her neck with one hand.

"Yes, Potter?"

"It's James, actually. I'm not a maker of pots."

"One of your ancestors must have been."

"One of your ancestors must have been… ginger."

She smiled at him in a pitying kind of way. "You're off your game."

"Consider me too dazzled by your presence to be sufficiently witty."

"Alright, but only because I enjoy wordy sentences."

"Can I add you on Facebook?" he asked her, and she raised her eyebrows in response. "I'm going to do it anyway, but I thought I'd ask your permission first."

"Asking is the first thing you do with your mouth."

"Oh yeah! Who taught us that again?"

"Your mother."

"Aww, good old Mumsie. She loved you."

"That's because I forced you to do your homework."

"And now you've been put in charge of me again," he reflected. "Can't escape me, Evans."

"Actually," she said with a smirk, closing the folder, which he took as a sign that he had finally captured her full attention. "My name is Lily."

"Alright, Lily."

"Thank you, James."

"See, that wasn't hard, was it?"

"No." A sweet, bashful smile touched her lips. "How've you been?"

"Pretty good. Remember how I always wanted to take flying lessons?"

"Yeah?"

"I can fly a helicopter now."

"Well, look who's come up in the world. That must impress the ladies."

"The ladies were plenty impressed before, I'll have you know."

"I'm aware, _believe_ me," said Lily with a roll of her eyes. "Camelia Pinkstone never let me hear the end of it at school. Do you still talk to her?"

"Nah," he said. "I hardly talk to anyone from school. My best mates are all here, Sirius and Remus and Peter, and Booth, even though she's stark raving mad."

"Does she really think she's psychic?"

"You'd swear she was Mystic Meg, the way she goes on. Christmas just gone, I forgot to bring her Secret Santa present into work so I had to let her read my tarot cards to make up for it."

"Really? What did she tell you?"

"Something about accepting change and not ignoring opportunities, and – oh – that she thinks I'll be engaged by the end of the year."

"Engaged to who?"

"Dunno, maybe Cameila's available?"

Lily started to giggle. "James, she cut off a lock of your hair in Geography."

"Yeah, but I'm working to a deadline, can't afford to be fussy."

She laughed, a proper laugh that came from her belly, a melody that brightened the room, with all its nooks and crannies, a sound as familiar and warming as his mum's cooking.

He'd really missed that sound.

"I'm glad you're talking to me now," he said, when her laughter had faded. "Remind me to thank Booth later."

Lily blushed, and her own smile slipped away immediately. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"I didn't mean – it's just that I felt completely sick when I saw you."

"I thought my looks had improved, actually."

" _No_ , not –" She pointed at him. "Oi, don't make me laugh when I'm being serious."

"Okay, Mum."

She laughed anyway, a breathy, desperate little thing. "I meant – it was just such a _shock_. Seeing you there when – I feel like – I feel like my stomach is tied up in knots."

"That's lust," he said solemnly. "Get used to it, because it won't fade."

"I will _strangle_ you," she warned.

"Okay, okay." He held his hands up in defeat. "I'll be serious."

"Are you sure?"

"I swear on my mum's grave."

"Alright," she said. "Because I have… _things_ to say to you."

"I'm listening."

Lily's cheeks were glowing, and she wore that aggrieved, sitting-on-a-cactus expression again. "I'm so unprepared."

The urge to crack a joke made itself known, but James was a man who honoured his promises. "What do you mean?"

"I mean – when we were younger, when we fought, we'd just hug it out and it would be sorted, but _now_ – I mean, we didn't even fight, I just – and I can't just hug you and forget about it, it's inappropriate, not to mention completely inadequate because you deserve a _much_ better apology than – I mean, I've imagined doing this a million times—"

"Really?"

"Yes, of course." She almost reached out to him, as if she was going to grab his hand – an old habit of hers – but dropped her arm on the desk like a dead weight. "I'm _so_ sorry. I'm really, truly – sorry doesn't even cover it. If I could go back in time–" Her throat caught. "I was the worst."

"You weren't the worst."

"I was, actually. I was the worst then and I was the worst earlier. You were being so nice and I just sat there in silence like a complete bitch. But it's only because I didn't know what to say to you, how to start or – when I saw you earlier, I assumed you'd be angry. I thought you hated me."

"Why would you think that? I was only teasing you about Snape earlier."

"Because of…" She looked around the office and dropped her voice to a whisper, leaning towards his desk. " _Because of what I did_."

"You're making it sound worse than it was."

"I wouldn't blame you if you did hate me," she said. "I'd hate me. I _did_ hate me. I did a horrible thing to you, and it wasn't fair, and I know that it hurt you, and that's – nobody should ever hurt you, you are a brilliant person, and you were my very best friend, and you didn't deserve any of it."

Part of James was really enjoying being apologized to, and there was no doubt that Lily was being truthful. He knew her to be an honest person, and it was clear that every word she spoke came from a very sincere place. Another part of him – the part that never wanted to see Lily Evans upset, the part that was incandescently happy to have her back – just wanted her to stop.

The truth was, she had hurt him very much, but there were extenuating circumstances to her story of which he had always been aware, to which he had always been sensitive, and for which nobody could possibly hold her accountable.

"I've never hated you," he said. "Not once in my life. If anyone told you otherwise, they were lying to you."

"But—"

"But, nothing. Remember how I was a dick about Snape for _years_? You forgave me for that."

"Not soon enough. And Snape's not _you_ , Snape wasn't – well, he turned out to be the way he was. He doesn't deserve an apology from me. You _do_. So you're having one."

"Lily—"

"I'm sorry."

"Seriously—"

"I'm _really_ sorry."

"Can I talk now?" he said. "Or do I have to come over there and sit on you?"

That took her off her guard. "Er, okay."

"Good. Cool, because I'm not angry, I was never angry, and I definitely don't hate you." She opened her mouth, but he gave her a warning look. "I know you feel terrible, and that's really appreciated, but I completely understand why you did it. I don't think you need to apologise, but I also know that you'll feel awful if you're not forgiven, so here it is – I solemnly forgive you, Lily Evans. Consider this your formal forgiveness ceremony, you can go in peace and be merry henceforth."

"It's not about how I feel, though, it's about how _you_ feel, and—"

"Lily," he said sternly. "Look at my face. My manly, handsome face. Do I look angry?"

She swallowed a laugh. "No."

"That's because I'm not angry. Not at all. In fact, I'm really glad you're here." He paused, pushing his glasses up his nose. "We can be friends again."

Her eyes widened hopefully. "We can?"

"Obviously."

She beamed at him. "That'd be really great."

"Right? Like old times. Except easier because Snape's not around to self-destruct every time I breathe in your immaculate presence."

Laughing, Lily picked up her phone and started tapping away at the screen. "Thank goodness for small mercies, I guess."

"Are you really going to come to my birthday?"

"I said I would, didn't I?" She looked up from her phone. "I've got fuck-all time to buy you a present, so you might end up with a pair of socks."

"One can never have too many socks," he solemnly replied. "Now, can I add you on Facebook or not?"

"Check your phone," she instructed.

James fished his mobile out of his pocket, felt it buzz in his hand and read the notification he had just received.

_Lily Evans wants to be your friend on Facebook._

He grinned at her and she smiled back, while his heart slipped and fell into a big pile of trouble.

* * *

At noon, it was explained to Lily that the bullpen chipped in for a daily Costa run, owing to the unappetising flavour of the instant coffee granules McGonagall purchased for the tea room – which Peter Pettigrew called an insult to the palate and Sirius Black, more succinctly, likened to piss. Excepting McGonagall, all staff members present were to draw straws, with the loser acting as dogsbody for the afternoon. Lily assumed that she was about to be treated to a hazing ritual until James drew the short straw and left, refusing to take her order because he was certain he'd remember it and if not, he'd pay for her drinks for the rest of the week. Off he went, leaving Lily to continue with some backlogged casefiles that McGonagall needed help with.

She worked in silence for ten minutes, and didn't notice that she'd received an instant message until she glanced up from her work, but there it was, flashing up on her screen in an old-fashioned, pre-Skype-era window.

_BB: Hi Lily._

She looked around the office and immediately caught sight of Beatrice, who was staring pointedly at her and gesturing to her computer. Lily flashed her an apologetic smile and tapped out a response.

_LE: Hey, sorry, I didn't notice your message._

_BB: No problem. This is just to let you know that the inter-office messaging system is to be used for work-related queries only._

_LE: Sure._

_BB: I also need some information from you for McGonagall._

_LE: Fire away._

_BB: Have you seen Potter's junk?_

Lily made a sound like a whistling teakettle and clamped her mouth shut. She started at Beatrice with wide-eyed horror but her aggressor merely smirked in her direction.

"Are you okay, Lily?" called Remus Lupin from the other side of the room. "Do you need a cough drop?"

"No!" she trilled, her face redder than a cherry tomato. Further inquiries from Beatrice popped up on her screen. "I don't need a – heh – don't need a cough drop. Thanks for the offer!"

 _BB: Seriously, have you though?_  
_BB: If so, details please.  
_ _BB: Penile Assessment Survey. Select all that apply: big/small/straight/curvy/angry/surprising/playful/like a dachshund you've deeply offended._

She was crap at hiding her laughter; the next one spluttered out of her mouth at an awkwardly high volume, so she patted her chest and told Lupin that she'd take the cough drop, thanks. He tossed her a sweet and she caught it deftly in one hand, but by the way he observed her she could tell she hadn't sold it. Beatrice watched the entire exchange with staggering composure. Lily decided that she liked her.

_LE: I'm going to take a wild guess and assume nobody monitors these messages._

_BB: Nobody uses the inter-office messaging system for work-related queries. Nobody cares. What's Potter packing downstairs?_

_LE: Why are you interested in what he's packing?_

_BB: Posterity._

_LE: The people need to know, do they?_

_BB: I mean, if you need an example…_

_LE: Please._

_BB: Say Sirius leaves the gas on one day. Potter's skipping innocently around his flat, singing Disney songs or doing whatever it is he does on Saturday nights while normal people are getting laid, and there's a massive explosion. He's caught in the blast and torn to shreds. Nothing remains EXCEPT… the meatstick. How do I identify the body?_

_LE: If you're so sure that I've seen his genitalia, why wouldn't I be identifying the body?_

_BB: You're too distraught, following the untimely combustion of your dear childhood friend. In this scenario, I've stepped up to relieve the rest of you of your pain._

_LE: Well, thank you in advance for your willingness to sacrifice your own happiness for my sake. Unfortunately, I can't help you. I've never seen what he's packing. The subject never came up in prefect meetings._

_BB: Hold the shitting phone. Potter was a PREFECT?_

_LE: Potter was head boy._

_BB: HAR DE HAR. That little shit, he pretends he was soooo rebellious in school. I'm going to rip him for this._  
_BB: So you never dated?_

_LE: Nope._

_BB: Knocked boots?_

_LE: I can confirm exactly zero interactions with his penis._

_BB: Ever thought about it?_

_LE: Obviously._

_BB: Kissed him?_

_LE: Yes. BUT. We were nine. Neither of us had kissed anyone before and we wanted to see what the big deal was, so we gave it a try. It wasn't exactly a sexual awakening, more of a snotty mess._

_BB: Awww! That's cute. Also anticlimactic._

_LE: If you were wondering why Hollywood hasn't acquired the rights to my life story, there's your reason._

"I'm back!" James announced – quite unnecessarily – as he strode into the office with a tray of drinks in hand and a plastic carrier bag swinging from his elbow. He set the tray down next to Lupin, removed two cups, kicked off his shoes and slid across the linoleum floor. He came to a halt beside Lily, who hurriedly hid her conversation window. "Table service, madam."

"Christ, James," said Remus, wrinkling his nose. "Can I have a moment to appreciate my coffee before the smell of your feet starts to linger in the air?"

"Convince McGonagall to let me wear trainers to work, and you'll have your wish," said James. "Anyway, don't interrupt my moment of truth. How does Lily Evans take her coffee? Was I right or wrong?"

Lily leaned back in her chair. "Go for it."

"Trick question! You hate coffee!" he cried, thrusting a paper cup triumphantly in her face. "Take your tea, woman, and let me savour my absolute correctness in all things."

"You haven't even let me tell you if you're right!"

"I am right."

"Well, yeah," she admitted, and took the tea. "Don't get crushed to death beneath that ego of yours."

"This would never happen. I have the shoulders of Atlas."

He sat down, saluted her with his coffee and produced a croissant from his carrier bag, which he was heartily tucking into by the time Beatrice sashayed over and sat on his desk.

"I know something about you," she sang. "Hey, who's the giant jammy dodger for?"

"For Lily," said James, through a mouthful of pastry.

"Aww, look at that," Beatrice cooed. "It's got a big love-heart in the middle! When's the wedding?"

"Well I wasn't planning to marry it, to be perfectly honest." He picked it up and dangled it over Lily's monitor. "I remembered you liked these. I was going to put it on your desk when you went to the toilet and tell you that we had a ghost, but-"

"But the Costa wrapper might have given it away?" Lily finished for him, taking it from his outstretched hand. "Real cute, Potter."

"Sooooo," said Beatrice loudly. Evidently, her interest lay in diverting attention to herself, and whatever it was she wanted to taunt him with. "James."

"Booth."

"James, James, James." She nudged his chair with her high-heeled shoe. "Lily tells me you were her first."

He nearly choked on the rest of his croissant. " _What_?!" he yelped, sending pastry flakes flying out of his mouth.

"First _kiss_!" Lily hastily supplied, and threw her cough drop at Beatrice's chest.

"Oi," piped up Remus, who had been watching the whole debacle. "Those things cost £3.99 a pop."

* * *

_It is March 25th, 2015. James Potter will be twenty-seven-years-old in two more days. He lives with his cat, Algernon, and best mate, Sirius Black, in a bachelor pad in Camden. He and Sirius have lived together for seven years, and they consider themselves brothers in all ways but one. Though James has a fondness for singing in the shower, and though Sirius enjoys depressing Russian literature, they're both happy with the arrangement, and get along just fine._

On Wednesday morning, James woke up early to make bacon sandwiches. Naturally, Sirius was suspicious.

James may have been a paragon of boundless energy, but by no stretch of the imagination was he a morning person. He stayed in bed until long after his alarm went off, until Sirius – or his cat – entered his room and forced him to get up. In fact, he was generally unable to provide a lucid response to a question until he 'woke up' on the train to work, let alone get out of bed before sunrise and _cook breakfast_.

And while Sirius appreciated a bacon sarnie as much as the next person – still, it was strange.

"What made you decide to cook breakfast this morning?" he asked James, once they boarded the tube and sat down.

"I woke up in a good mood," said James, as if that was that.

He studied his friend closely. There were other signs of alien interference, he noted. For one, James had ironed his clothes before work. He was wearing a _tie_. Stranger still, he couldn't seem to settle and kept shifting around in his seat, staring at the other passengers as if afraid he'd missed something important. His hair stuck out in mad directions, but that was normal, at least.

"Are you ill?"

James pulled a face. "No."

"What do you keep looking around for?"

"Nothing."

He pulled his phone from his pocket, opened Spotify and put in his earbuds, which was a subtle indication that the conversation was over. Sirius merely raised his voice an octave higher. Subtle indications bounced off him like a rubber ball.

"Does Evans take the Northern Line to work, too?" he half-shouted, startling the woman to his right, who had been dozing.

James paused his music and turned his head to glare at Sirius. His ears were turning red. "Yes."

"Looking for her, were you?"

"You're a wanker."

"I'm just looking out for you, my lonely, orphaned, blue-balled best mate, and trying to keep your nib out of the office ink."

"That's why you shoved ice cubes down my pants, is it?"

"That was a bit of innocent, Saturday-morning horseplay. Now I'm actually being serious."

"I'm not trying to – to _dip my nib_. Jesus."

"So you're not interested in her?"

James glowered at him.

"That's what I thought. You've got your dick out already."

"I'm putting my music back on."

"Er, _no_ , you can listen to me now and then I'll leave you to it, or I'll bother you about it every day, which isn't fair on either of us because you know I hate talking about this shit. Your choice."

"Fine." James tugged his headphones out of his ears. "Go ahead."

"You're a tit."

"This was a great talk, thanks."

"You're a tit because – and don't pretend this isn't true – you've been through it with this girl before, and all she did was lead you on and ditch you—"

"You don't know the full—"

"Story, I know. Don't need to. She'll do it again if you give her the chance; girls like her always do. Then you'll be stuck working with her and you'll mope around all day like a heartbroken sap and I'm the one who'll have to deal with it."

James didn't seem impressed. "That won't happen."

"Happened last time. You were a mopey bastard when I met you."

"Last time, I was a teenager," James reminded him, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Anyway, Lily is my _friend_. She was my friend for a long time, and – yeah – she's fit, but that doesn't change anything. I just want to be mates."

"You're sure it doesn't change anything?"

James shook his head. "Positive."

"So I assume you're still bringing the girl from Pret to your birthday?"

Silence. The train pulled in at Warren Street station and a few early-morning commuters got on while James chewed the inside of his cheek, and then... "I texted her and cancelled."

"When?"

"Monday night."

"For fuck's sake, Potter," said Sirius, and elbowed him in the ribs. "I can't – I don't like her, alright?"

"I know."

"And what does –" Sirius shut his mouth, realising that he'd been about to ask _what does Algernon think about all this?_ "And I'm not going to try. And _you're_ a fucking idiot."

"I know," said James placidly. "But I'm all you've got."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy May! Chapter Three will be up on the 10th!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reference guide before we begin, as Lily and James use some acronyms in their work that some readers may not be familiar with. I could have them use the full terms but I don’t think that would be natural.
> 
> SOCO: Scenes of Crime Officer (basically CSI)  
> SIO: Senior Investigating Officer  
> TFL: Transport for London 
> 
> One other thing for my American pals, Cluedo is the British version of the board game Clue, and in Britain, public school is what we call schools that are selective and charge expensive fees. They’re basically private schools because the wealthy elite are contradictory messes (I assume). And on we go!

**Chapter Three**

_It is March 26 th, 2015, and James Potter – one day away from his twenty-seventh birthday – has not fully recovered from the shock that befell him on Monday morning. He remains dazzled and suspects that he is in some danger, but he’s a natural showman, and hides it surprisingly well._ 

On the day of his birth, James had been blessed with four assets that stayed with him well into adulthood: buckets of charisma, a whirlwind of messy black hair, a large trust fund and boundless optimism. He was mostly grateful for the hair.  

After Lily Evans moved to Cambridge and James was forced to accept that he needed to notice other girls if he didn’t want to die alone and frustrated, he found that his hair often worked in his favour. Though he wasn’t attractive in a classical sense, women loved his unkempt mop, and tended to like _him_ after one conversation; that’s where the charisma played its part. All things considered, he did quite well with the ladies. So that was handy.

The trust fund was a privilege, and James would never be so blinded by ignorance as to complain about it. He had plenty where others had few, which made him very fortunate. Even so, wealth came with its own set of problems. It drew more admirers than his hair and charm combined, and it had taken James some time to figure out how to separate the wheat from the chaff, but that hardly made him unlucky. He had been raised with a working-class mentality by two self-made, working-class parents, and didn’t live an extravagant life. Thus, the women who dated him for his money often left of their own volition, once they learned that he had no intention of keeping them in a decadent, diamond-studded lifestyle.  

As for the optimism, he applied it to his life as much as he could.  

James led a charmed existence, and had only experienced true suffering on two occasions. The first was when Lily Evans left London and the second was when he lost his parents – but even in their deaths, he could peer through the darkness and find a drop of comfort. Fleamont and Euphemia Potter died within a week of one another. His mother passed first, followed shortly by her dear, devoted husband, a self-confessed ‘one woman man’ who made her happiness his life’s work. It was fitting that two people who loved each other as much as they had would not stand to be parted by anything, even death, and James had the security of knowing that wherever they had gone, they’d gone there together.

James occasionally suspected that he was a little too like his father in that regard. If he was, any progress he’d made in ridding himself of this worrying likeness was swiftly undone when Lily Evans walked out of McGonagall’s office three days prior. 

So perhaps, for the third time in his life, he deserved a little sympathy.

* * *

“I’ll bet you a fiver he’s dead.”

Lily tilted her head sideways. “It’s just a scratch. He’s being dramatic.”

“You’re right. I’ll tell him to walk it off.”

“We’re both going to hell,” she said, and bit back a smile.

Murder investigations were fascinating beasts, but they were in equal parts dirty, unglamorous and terribly depressing. James counted on his sense of humour to get him through them in one piece, because the alternative was drowning. In the rare instance where the victim was a child, or showed signs of sexual abuse, no riposte would ever be buoyant enough to keep his head above water, and he would just have to swim as hard as he could until he reached the shore.

Those cases, however, were not most murders. Most murders were born of gangs, drugs and petty crime, and they were easier to shrug off with a witty one-liner. Not every detective agreed with that line of thinking, but James believed that self-preservation was vital, especially if he wanted to be good at his job.

It seemed that he and Lily were of one mind on that matter.

“I think you should take lead on this one,” she said. Her tone implied that she wasn’t asking, but had already made up her mind. “I’ll take the case after, and then we can alternate.”

“Works for me. I’ve already solved it.”

“Oh really? 

“Yup. Professor Plum, with the lead pipe, in the billiard room.”

Lily rewarded his brilliance with a comically unattractive snort. “Big Hasbro fan, are you?”

“They won’t let you investigate crimes around here until you’ve won at least fifteen games of Cluedo.”

“That’s what passes for training in London?”

“Pretty much,” he said, and they smiled at each other. “Why do you want me to take this one? Not that I mind, but I thought you’d be dying to lead your first case.”

“I am, but this is your patch.”

“My patch?” His lips quirked. “Are we Dickensian pickpockets?”

“ _You’re_ not, you bloody toff,” she replied, giggling. “Your area, then. You know SOCO and you know how everything works in this division. I do intend to learn from you, you know.”

“Alright,” he ceded. “Assuming SOCO ever bloody gets here.”

Lily nodded and stepped away from the body, the protective covers on her shoes crinkling, her eyes following the blood smears on the pebbled ground. She beckoned to one of the uniformed officers who waited nearby. “What an inconsiderate killer we’ve got on our hands.”

“When most of them are so sweet and considerate of our time.”

The body had been spotted that morning by a sharp-eyed resident of one of the surrounding flats. It was lying next to the train tracks that ran beneath the Ray Street Bridge off Farringdon Road, which was an unusual place to find a body because the drop was blocked off by a high wall, making it an unlikely spot for jumpers. The CID were called in when it became clear that the body had been discarded there – according to Flitwick, the pathologist, the victim had been stabbed in the neck. After sitting in traffic for a half hour, speaking to the witness and arranging for her official statement, they’d been forced to go to Farringdon Station and walk along the tracks for ten minutes, just to reach the site and speak to Flitwick, as there was no way down from the bridge itself.

It was a pain in the neck for the station and the commuters, but James was too delighted by Lily’s presence to be annoyed by anything. Working on a case with her felt like the time they’d pulled an all-nighter making an elaborate headpiece from bottle-caps and straws for their school’s charity fashion show, only _much_ , much cooler.

“Track marks on his arms,” said Lily, and pointed at the victim. “You think they look fresh?”

“Dunno, but they’re not old. And the tattoo’s interesting.” On the victim’s left forearm was a tattoo of a skull with a snake in its mouth. James frowned at it. “I’m sure I’ve seen another like it.”

“On a victim?” 

“No, I don’t think so. I think Sirius pulled a case where one of the perpetrators had a tattoo like that. I'll have to check.”

“Could be gang-related, then.”

“Probably. We’ve got plenty of stab-happy gangs in Central. Hey,” he said to the uniform, who had joined them. “I’m SIO on this one. Dr. Flitwick’s gone back to the train station to use the loo, so you can go ahead and remove the body as soon as he gets back. I also need you to send someone up to the bridge – keep any little shits from throwing rubbish and contaminating the scene.”

“No problem,” said the officer, and sped away to inform his colleagues. Lily raised her arm and pointed in the direction from which they’d walked.

“SOCO, I think,” she said. Six officers in boiler suits were picking their way towards them. “God knows how far a parameter they’ll need to set up; the victim could have been dragged for ages.”

“They’re pretty good, they’ll probably establish a kill-site today. We need to get someone looking for his—“

“Jacket,” said Lily absently. She was watching the SOCO officers approach. “And his—“

“Phone,” he finished for her, smiling to himself. “Why would the killer take his phone and his jacket, but not his wallet?”

“Unless he didn’t have either, but who doesn’t have a phone?”

“And who goes out in this weather in a t-shirt? This isn’t Newcastle.” 

Lily was laughing as Prewett, the senior SOCO, approached them and nodded at James. “Alright, Potter?”

“Alright, mate,” said James, returning the nod. “Bit of a pain getting here, wasn’t it?”

“Tell me about it,” he said, but then he noticed Lily, and started looking her up and down with great interest. “But it suddenly feels like the effort was worth it. Who is _this_?” 

“I’m the killer,” said Lily dryly. “Here to contaminate the scene.”

“This is DS Evans,” said James, his mouth curved in a friendly smile, his fist itching to punch Prewett hard. In the face. “She started with us on Monday.”

“Fabian Prewett, senior SOCO,” said Prewett, and extended his hand like a complete and utter arsehole. Even in a white boiler suit, Prewett was one of those universally good-looking blokes who probably never had to spend a Saturday night alone, eating room-temperature special fried rice and binge watching his _Frasier_ boxset while his cruel cat judged him from the ottoman. He smiled at Lily as she shook his hand, displaying his gleaming, toothpaste-advert teeth.

“So,” said James, before Prewett could take Lily roughly on top of the body. “Lily and I need to get back to the station and speak to McGonagall about resources. TFL are on our case already – they need the lines reopened as soon as. We’ve got a couple of days at most, so you’re on borrowed time. Flitwick should be back any moment to have the body removed, so if you could start out and move your way in, that’d be helpful.” 

“No worries,” said Prewett, removing a pair of latex gloves from one of his many pockets. “I’m on it like a car bonnet.” 

“It’s appreciated,” said Lily. 

“Whatever the lady desires,” said Prewett, with another devastating smile. “I look forward to getting to know you better.” 

While he summoned his team around him and started handing out instructions, James and Lily waited for Flitwick to return. Prewett kept looking at her. He continued to look at her when Flitwick got back and began to supervise the removal of the body. When James and Lily left, moving back in the direction of Farringdon Station, Lily tossed a glance over her shoulder and pulled a face. 

“He’s still looking.” 

“What?” 

“Prewett,” she sighed. “Next time you see that bloke, pretend you’re my boyfriend, okay? I’d rather not have to work with someone I rejected.” 

The irony was, of course, that she had rejected James in the past. He wisely refrained from mentioning that. “Are you speaking from experience?” 

“There was a pathologist in Cambridge – his name was Belby – who asked me out once. When I turned him down, he ‘accidentally’ held up a couple of autopsies and made me look incompetent. And blokes like him never believe made-up boyfriends unless you offer them proof.” 

“Ah.” 

“So, if _you_ get in there first, I won’t have to make one up.” 

“Don’t you think that’ll end up starting a rumour?” 

“Probably, but McGonagall knows about Belby; she won’t care.” 

James felt a little lighter in his step. “He was a bit obvious, wasn’t he?” 

“About as obvious as a kick in the nuts,” said Lily, stepping around a dirty scarf that lay on the ground. “And unprofessional, and really not endearing.” 

“The trials that beautiful people have to suffer, eh?” 

Lily shrugged. “You’d know as well as I do.” 

“Are you saying I’m beautiful, then?”

“You know what I think of your looks. Stop fishing.” 

“It’s been nine years, though,” he pointed out. “I might need reminding.” 

Lily side-stepped, drawing closer to him, and gave him a playful shove. “Shut up, handsome.” 

* * *

The next step in the investigation was to find sustenance, as Lily had skipped breakfast that morning. James hadn’t, nor was he particularly hungry, but Lily had proposed that she buy him food and he was hardly prepared to turn down anything she offered. They stopped at a café before they returned to the car and discussed the case on the way back, sipping on tea and clutching their hot meat pasties, wrapped in greasy paper bags, in their freezing cold hands. It was a crisp, clear London morning, and it felt like old times. 

“How are we going to do small talk?” she asked him in the car. 

The police station was seven miles from Farringdon Station, but a combination of roadworks and everyday congestion landed them in thick traffic immediately. Lily had already removed the lid from her paper cup and chewed her way around the rim like a peckish rabbit. It was peppered with little indentations. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You know, all the usual stuff you talk about with a new partner – where you went to school, where you grew up, what your parents were like, your hopes and dreams – we already know all of that stuff, so what do we talk about?” 

“You ask your colleagues about that?” said James, amused. “ _Sirius_ barely knows my hopes and dreams.” 

“I mean, no,” she admitted, and gave a short, surprised laugh. “I suppose that’s exclusive to me and you. We used to talk about that stuff.” 

The car was moving along Cowcross Street at a snail’s pace, which allowed James the luxury of examining Lily at length. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and beneath her dark trench coat she wore a green blouse that brought out the colour of her bright, intelligent eyes just so. She looked exactly like the brilliant girl she’d been at eighteen, the one who wanted to make her mark on the world, and yet entirely different all at once. 

“Hopes and dreams are always changing,” he pointed out. “You never wanted to be a copper, from what I remember.” 

“And _you_ always did.” 

“I guess that makes me the reliable one.” 

“Well, that’s debatable. I only figured it was the right path for me because you could never beat me at Cluedo.” 

“I was letting you win.” 

“Lies.” 

“I never lie, I’ll have you know. They call me Honest Jim at the station.” 

“ _That’s_ a lie.” 

“They call me Mostly-Honest Jim at the station,” he amended, grinning.  

“Well then, here’s a question that demands a mostly-honest answer,” she said. “Is being a detective everything you wanted it to be?” 

“Yeah.” 

She frowned, a faint crinkle between her brows. “You don’t want to elaborate on that?” 

“Not really. I love my job, I live with my best mate, and I’ve got a pretty fun life. Can’t complain.” 

“What about Sleekeazy’s?” 

“Dad sold it when Mum got sick. He wasn’t up to running it anymore and I didn’t want it. The solicitor said he got a good price for it, I dunno.” 

“You don’t know what it sold for?” 

James shrugged and flipped on the indicator, having finally crawled to the turn-off for St. John’s Street. “I was too worried about my parents to care. They gave some of the proceeds to charity, but I guess they wanted me to have something to fall back on in case being a detective didn’t pan out. I know the money’s there, I just don’t know what to do with it.” 

“Well, I’m sure they’d be happy to know that it has,” said Lily. “Panned out, I mean.” 

“You think so?” 

“Of course. You’re the smartest person I know, and you’re great at your job.” 

Now was the time for James to support her statement with some witticisms about how brilliant he was, but for once – quite uncharacteristically – he didn’t know what to say, so he focused on executing a perfect left turn. 

“From what I’ve seen, anyway,” Lily finished. He glanced at her. She was staring contemplatively into her cup. “But a few million in the bank sounds like a decent backup plan.” 

Lily’s family weren’t wealthy, even though she and James had attended the same public school as teenagers. Her industrious parents scrimped and saved to see their daughters receive the best education possible, so unlike their classmates, Lily didn’t spend her winters in Courchevel, nor could she claim any distant blood-link to the monarchy. But money had never been an issue between the two of them. He had lots and she had little, but she never let him pay for her when they went to see a movie, and forked over half whenever they ordered a takeaway. James was only allowed to buy her gifts at Christmas and on her birthday, and even then, she scolded him if he spent too much – not that it stopped him. 

So while James was rich, Lily bought a packed lunch to school and worked part-time at weekends, which gave her all the markings of an unpopular girl, but she was Lily Evans, so everyone liked her. She had a gift for winning affection and she was very confident, so her peers gravitated towards her, desperate for a slice of her self-assurance. People liked her because she made them feel the way she felt about herself, and no amount of money could purchase that kind of security. 

And for all his faults, he, James Potter, had been her most valued, most important friend – but he’d been unwilling to share that distinction with Severus Snape, and if he hadn’t been so difficult, things might have turned out differently. Maybe. It was a topic upon which he had ruminated and obsessed for a stupid amount of time.

“When Dad died, his solicitor arranged for a financial advisor to meet me,” he told her, while she swirled her tea in her mouth. “He was a smarmy prick, one of those arseholes with a Bluetooth earpiece who really wants you to notice it.” 

“Yuck.” 

“Anyway, he told me to invest most of it in a hedge fund in the Far East and he was really pushy about it. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about so I sent him away and told him I’d think about it. He stopped calling me eventually but it took about six months.” 

Lily laughed. “Why not answer and tell him you’re not interested?” 

“Too much effort. I don’t even order food over the phone. Hey, you don’t happen to know what I can do with the money, do you?” 

“Is that a genuine question?” 

He glanced at her again. Her tea was clutched to her chest like a talisman, kept close for warmth, another little trait of hers he had remembered over the course of the week. She had already adjusted the passenger seat to her specific preference, claiming ownership of the space, as utterly self-possessed as always.

She smiled at him with something like fondness in her expression, and his eager little heart throbbed against his ribs. A slightly worrying reaction, he felt. He’d need to keep an eye on that.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice light. “I haven’t got a clue, and you’re an adult, so I thought you’d know better.” 

“You’re also an adult.” 

“You’re older than me.” 

“By two months!” 

“Perhaps, but my mental age is measured in dog years,” he pointed out. “I might be about to turn twenty-seven but I’m actually, er, eighty? Wait, that’s not right.” 

“One dog year is something like seven human years,” said Lily. “So, you’d be about three-and-a-half.” 

“See? You know more about dog years than I do. You're clearly better equipped to handle my finances." 

“How does this make you any less of an adult?” 

“Well.” 

“Well?” 

The car came to a gentle halt at the traffic lights, and James held a finger in the air. “For one thing, I tried to do laundry a few weeks ago and turned the towels pink.” 

“That kind of thing can happen to anyone.” 

“I eat last night’s takeaway pizza for breakfast.” 

“Cold pizza is delicious.” 

“What if I tell you that Mum made me spend a year taking professional culinary classes, but I never cook?” 

“My point about the pizza still stands.” 

“I don’t pay attention to use-by dates.” 

“They’re just guidelines.” 

“And I spend my days off in bed with my cat.” 

“And _that_ sounds like a productive use of your time,” Lily argued, smiling sweetly. “Sorry, but I’m not convinced. I think you’re plenty grown up.” 

He shook his head at her, and eased the car forwards. “Based on what evidence?” 

She took a moment to contemplate. “You’re taller.” 

He chortled. “And handsomer.” 

“That’s a given,” she agreed. “You got ripped.” 

“You noticed?” 

“That your skinny chicken limbs have filled out? Yeah, of course I noticed. You’ve been flexing _constantly_.” 

“I have no idea what you mean,” he said, flexing his left arm, to which Lily gave an appreciative laugh.

“You’ve got a job,” she said. “You don’t live with a chaperone—“ 

“My cat would beg to differ.”

“You manage to feed and clothe yourself, and I assume you bathe. What else do you think it means to be an adult?”

“I dunno – watching Shakespeare in the park? Drinking cappuccinos in outdoor cafés? I don’t know what you people get up to.” 

“Real imaginative, but I’ve never seen Shakespeare in the park and I don’t like coffee.”  

“You taught me how to switch energy providers,” he pointed out. “I didn’t even know I had options.” 

“And?” said Lily, gesturing to the windscreen with her cup. “If it bothers you that much, ask questions. Learn things. Come and see Shakespeare in the park with me.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. I’ll come and drag you out of bed one morning. You can even take your cat.”

“You will _not_.” 

“I will.” 

“Algernon won’t stand for it.” 

“Algernon?” she repeated, and bolted up in her seat, her spine springing to attention. “You still have Algernon? He’s still _alive_?”

James privately believed that Algernon was immortal. “Yup.”

“Are you serious?!” Beaming, she clasped her knee with her free hand. “Oh my _god_. Really? You’re not having me on?”

“Yeah, really,” he said, and returned her smile, which was infectious and altogether lovely. Her eyes were alight with excitement – she looked more like her younger self than ever. “I’m always serious where Algernon is concerned.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” she repeated. “I can’t believe he’s still around after all this time. I _loved_ that cat! Can I come and see him one day? Would Sirius mind?” 

“Nah, course he wouldn’t,” James lied. “Algernon would be thrilled to see you.”  

“It’s been nine years,” she said, laughing. “He won’t remember me.”  

“Er, yes he will, because he’s dead clever. Remember the bacon sandwich?”  

"He didn't fetch you that sandwich."  

"Yes, he did."  

"You put it in a bag and tied it to his back."  

"And as you’ll recall, it worked as an excellent harness."  

"Carrying is _not_ fetching."  

"He still brought me the sandwich."  

"Because you called him over!"  

"Did he complain once?"  

"He's a cat! How was he going to complain?" 

"Algernon and I have an understanding, Evans," James insisted, and tapped on the steering wheel. They had long since turned on to Clerkenwell Road and would be arriving at the station at any moment, where they’d be forced to revert to shop-talk and semi-professionalism, which was a shame, but solving their first case as partners would more than compensate for the occasional hour of staidness. "We communicate. You wouldn't know unless you'd ever had a cat yourself."  

"I do have a cat, actually," she retorted triumphantly. "Her name is Darla."  

"Ooh, a lady cat? Algernon's been looking for a girlfriend."  

"Algernon is too old for her, she's barely adolescent! An innocent. He's too worldly, he’ll just knock her up and leave her."  

"He can't, actually. I had to have him fixed."  

"Oh, shit, really?"  

"Yeah, he went on a sex rampage. Total disaster."

She was laughing by the time James pulled into the car park at the back of the station. Sirius was outside, leaning casually against one of the unmarked cars while Lockhart searched around for something in his personal vehicle, a trying-too-hard Mercedes. Sirius was supposed to be partnering Remus now that James had Lily, but as Moony was in the middle of an armed burglary case with Peter, Sirius had been stuck with Lockhart in the interim. Gilderoy, in turn, was unhappy to be separated from Slughorn, the only person in the CID who was willing to listen to his blatantly dishonest stories about his own accomplishments.

Sirius glared at their car – at Lily, really – as James pulled in, but she didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps she assumed that he glared at everyone by default. She wouldn’t have been wrong.

“This was fun,” she said, when he switched the engine off. “I’ve missed this, I think. Am I allowed to say that?”

“Missed what?” James replied, distracted by Sirius.

“This whole – you and me, you know?”

That got his attention. He turned his gaze on her immediately and she was blushing, something she’d been doing a lot since Monday, embarrassed and contrite as she had been, and still was. He felt a little ashamed of himself for enjoying it. “You did?”

“Yeah. Of course.” She tucked a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear. “Did you?”

The brilliant and witty response James felt sure was preparing to fall from his lips was rudely interrupted by Sirius, who banged hard on the window with his fist. Lily jumped, droplets of tea bouncing merrily from her cup, but James had expected something of this nature. Sirius had a miraculous talent for interrupting people who wanted to be left alone.

“OI!” said Sirius. “Open the window!”

James couldn’t tell his best mate to take a dive into the Thames without arousing Lily’s suspicion, so he rolled the window down. “Alright, mate?”

Sirius bent down so that their heads were level, hands braced against the car, his fingers smearing the squeaky-clean windshield. By the looks of it, he’d been eating something greasy. “Heard you got a murder, lucky git.”

“Hello,” said Lily, and waved at him.

“Hi,” said Sirius tightly, without looking at her. “Anything good? I’d kill for a good murder. We’ve got an assault to get to, if Lockhart ever finds his fucking tweezers.”

Beside James, Lily shifted in her seat, presumably to get a better look at Lockhart. “What does he need a tweezers for?”

“Swap cases?” Sirius suggested, speaking again to James, and James only. Lily hadn’t been spared once glance since his withering, yet ineffective glares. “We work the murder, you send the new girl off with Lockhart, job done.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because no,” James repeated. “Bugger off.”

“In a minute. Footy tonight?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we just pulled a murder case, obviously,” said James. “I’ll be late home.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but didn’t question him. There were cases you could take a break from, and then there were murders. If Sirius himself had pulled it, he wouldn’t have turned up at five-a-side either. “What time?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Just in case,” said Sirius darkly, as if James was liable to fall down a mineshaft if he stayed out past 7pm. “As your legal guardian—”

“Piss off.”

“—I’m only doing my duty. Don’t be cheeky to your auntie Sirius.”

James suspected that Lily would have laughed, had Sirius not blindsided her with his casual insolence earlier. “Lockhart’s waiting for you,” he said, indicating with his head.

Sirius looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, Lockhart was sitting in the passenger side of the car they’d been assigned. He groaned.

“Alright,” he said. “Time for an afternoon with this prick. See you later.”

“Later,” said James.

“Bye,” said Lily, with less enthusiasm than she’d started out with.

Sirius didn’t respond with anything other than a stiff jerk of the head, before striding over to the car that he and Lockhart were set to take. James watched him get in, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. He could have dealt with Sirius more easily if he’d said something outright nasty – which James very much hoped he wouldn’t – but passive, subtle rudeness was a harder grievance to deal with.

“He doesn’t seem to like me very much,” said Lily, her eyes following Sirius as he swung the car onto the road, complete with an unnecessary gunning of the engine. “Does he know…?”

“What, Sirius? Nah,” said James quickly. That wasn’t a full-blown lie, but certainly not the truth. “He acts that way with everyone.”

“Then how does he ever make any friends?”

“He, er, stops eventually.”

Lily didn’t look convinced.

“He’s fine, honestly,” James reassured her. “He just needs to get to know you first.”

She still looked as if she didn’t believe him, but shrugged. “Alright, then. Let’s go in and see McGonagall.”

“Okay,” he agreed, happy to drop the subject. “Tell her I was a good boy, won’t you?”

* * *

_It is still March 26 th, 2015, and Lily and James are working on their first case together as real-life, all-grown-up, bona fide detectives, which is very exciting. It’s James’s birthday tomorrow and Lily – burdened by the passing of time and the weight of her own remorse – bought him nine presents (one for every year she missed) in a fit of guilt-fuelled madness. He’s not aware of this and may remain ignorant, depending on how brave she’s feeling tomorrow._

Though it was a colourful hub of live music, fascinating markets and good food, one of the lesser known perks of Camden Town was that James Potter lived there, and therefore had to take the same trains to and from work as Lily. That evening, they both stayed late at the station and travelled home together for the first time that week. Since they'd taken many so many tube journeys together in their younger years, it cast a nice, rosy glow of déjà vu over the evening. 

The rest of the day had been productive. SOCO established a kill-site close to the body's location within two hours, and while Flitwick couldn't provide a full report until the next morning, he was fairly certain from his initial examination that the victim, who they’d managed to ID as Darius Gibbon, a thirty-two-year-old white male with previous drug charges on his record, had been killed by a single stab wound to the neck. He had no spouse or parents, but his ex-girlfriend had come in to formally identify him, dragging with her a little boy who had Gibbon’s face, and didn’t seem surprised to find him in a body bag. 

When Lockhart and Black returned to the station, Black was able to help James to recall how he remembered the tattoo. It was, as they had suspected, a gang tattoo associated with a group that called themselves Death Eaters. Not only were they heavily invested in the drug trade, several members had also been put away for racially motivated assaults and murders. The likelihood was that Gibbon had gotten into some debt he couldn’t pay back, as was often the case when drugs were involved. 

Black didn’t look at Lily once when he joined them at their desks, nor did he speak to her. Either he was painfully shy, which she doubted, or he had made up his mind to hate her. James claimed otherwise, but Lily suspected that he wasn’t being honest. 

Of course, her suspicion was based on an intimate understanding of James that had been possessed by her teenage self. She couldn’t claim that understanding any longer, so she didn’t feel confident enough to push the subject. Nor did she desire to. She could think of one reason why Black would dislike her, and she didn’t want to plunge her hands into that filthy mess. Whatever James had told his friend – his best friend, the person who had replaced her in his estimation – in the past, he’d been within his rights to do so. 

She wasn’t entirely comfortable with the forgiveness James had offered, and felt like she should have done a lot more to earn it. Nor did she believe that James was as wholly disposed to forget as he appeared – but again, how would she possibly know if he were? They may have reconnected with alarming ease, but she had surrendered any right she once had to know what he was thinking. On the surface, everything was fine. He was as easy to talk to and laugh with as he ever had been, but her past actions felt like a layer of grime that she was impatient to scrape off.

So it was on James, not their work, that Lily ruminated as she sat across from him on the train – they'd been unable to find a seat together – and studied him, while he played a game on his phone and had no idea that she was staring. She found herself a little awed by what she had remembered over the years. She knew the details of his face with surprising intimacy – the crease between his brows, the angle of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips when he smiled – every tiny piece of him that her memory had wrapped tight in its stubborn tendrils. Lily's last relationship had lasted three years and been serious enough for her to live with the guy, and after six months of being single she couldn't remember his voice, but the freckles on James Potter's nose felt like an old friend. 

But then, James _had_  been her best friend for thirteen years, and their friendship had been magic, even immovable. They had been perfectly, comfortably suited to one another - so maybe they could be that way again. Despite her worries and reservations, perhaps it would transpire that their bond was strong enough to repair itself. Perhaps, though she could never be his best friend again, they could still matter to each other. Eventually. Once she'd earned it.

Perhaps what they'd once had was more important to Lily than a three-year relationship that almost ended in marriage, and if it was, that wasn't cause for concern. Really.

* * *

“Hi,” she said, dropping into the seat next to him.

James looked up from his phone and smiled at her. “Hello, you. Couldn’t stay away?”

“Obviously not.” She adjusted her handbag in her lap. They’d reached Euston, and as the man sitting next to James had gotten off the train, Lily wasted no time in taking the vacant seat before someone else could claim it. “I shot over here as soon as that bloke got up. People must think I’m mad.”

“Or that you can’t resist me.”

"Or that," she agreed. "And who could blame me?"

He laughed to himself as he slid his phone into his trouser pocket. "Booth certainly seems to think so."

"What?"

"I forgot to tell you earlier," he said. "While you were meeting with McGonagall, giving her your report on my behaviour—"

"She just wanted to know how I was settling in!"

"—Booth was bothering me with all these questions about you."

Lily frowned. "What was she saying?"

"The same stuff she was asking you on Monday," he said, fluffing up his hair on one side. "If we'd dated at school, if we'd kissed more than the one time you told her about, all of that stuff."

"Jesus, she's like a dog with a bone."

"That's Booth for you. She loves gossip."

"The National Inquirer loves gossip less than she does."

His lips quirked, as if he knew some brilliant joke she didn't. "She reckons you weren't honest with her."

"Probably because I wasn't honest."

"I _know_ ," he said, grinning. "As if I'd forget."

"I know you know," she said, with a wry smile in return. "But does _she_ know that?"

"Nah, don't worry, I backed you up," he assured her, and gently bumped his shoulder against hers. "I'm not planning on telling anyone."

"Even Sirius?" she said innocently.

"Sirius and I are blokes, we don't really talk about our feelings."

The train was packed, and hot, and smelled a little from the crush of bodies. Lily pulled her ponytail out. Her hair was so plentiful and thick that tying it up all day always made her head ache by the evening. She shook out her hair, combing it with her fingers, looking a lot more together than she felt. "So you're saying he knows nothing, then?"

"Not _nothing_ ," he said, and laughed at her expression. "Not everything. Not most of it. He knows that things didn't happen when I'd hoped they would, but that's all I ever told him. I didn't really want to discuss it with anyone at the time, and I'd only just met him."

At the time, when he was probably too hurt to talk about it, she thought with a pang. "So he doesn't know about... you know?"

"About July?" He shook his head. "I never told anyone about that."

"Never?"

"Nope. Well." He looked thoughtful. "I told Algernon, but that doesn't really count. Unless you ask him, then it does."

"I told Mary."

"I know."

"Did that bother you?"

He shrugged. "She was your best mate."

" _Second_ best mate," she corrected him.

"Second best mate," he agreed, and looked rather pleased with himself. "I expected you to tell her, so I wasn't bothered. Anyway, Mary's okay, it's not like she rubbed it in my face afterwards."

She would have liked to give his hand a squeeze, something she had done often during their friendship without ever having to think about it, but it felt weird and forbidden to touch him in such an intimate way, so she settled on a smile. "You're a very nice person, you know."

"So are you," he said. "And thanks."

"And you know you don't have to keep it secret for my benefit, right? I probably deserve it, and if it makes you more comfortable, fire away."

James regarded her very seriously for a moment, then laughed.

"What did I say?" she asked, baffled.

"Nothing," he said, chortling. "You're just funny."

"How?"

"Because you're acting like I've made some huge sacrifice," he said, and grinned widely at her. "I'm not being honourable or anything, I just don't want everyone in the office knowing our business, people would just take the piss."

"I suppose," Lily agreed. "And it'd probably make things difficult with McGonagall."

"Not probably, it would. She was reconsidering making us partners when she found out that we knew each other. Can you imagine how she'd react if she knew that we—“

 _"Camden Town_ ," said the automated voice that announced the train arrivals, and a crush of people stood up around them. James's head craned around to look out of the window behind him.

"That was quick," he said. "This is my stop."

"Auntie Sirius won't be cross that you're late home, will she?"

"Don't care if she is, I'm a big boy," said James, and hauled himself up. The train was pulling into the station, and people were jostling to get at the doors. "See you tomorrow, Lily."

"Night, James." 

He blew her an exaggerated kiss before he moved away, waved at her once he'd stepped onto the platform, and if this chummy, innocuous behaviour of his made Lily's heart beat a little faster, she never told anyone about it.

Except her cat, but that didn't really count.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologise to all of the Sirius lovers out there for his behaviour in this chapter, and promise wholeheartedly that it will improve.
> 
> Below is another mini glossary for you guys before we begin.
> 
> Offy = Off Licence = Liquor Store  
> Primark = like a British Target, where one can purchase cheap clothes

**Chapter Four**

_It’s April 1 st, 2006, and James Potter has been eighteen-years-old for five days. He throws his birthday party on April Fool’s Day for the novelty of it, but more importantly, because his parents are away for the weekend. Lily Evans, who hasn’t spoken to James in two weeks, is in attendance. She tells Severus Snape that she’s only going for the sake of Mary, who fancies one of James’s friends. She’s lying._

“I’ll _murder_ McNamee if he starts playing Chico,” said Mary MacDonald.

“Music’s terrible,” Lily agreed, her forehead pressed against the bathroom door. “Camelia, will you please come out now?”

The Potters’ downstairs hall was a strange place for an amateur DJ to set up his turntable, but that was the spot Evan McNamee had chosen to make his debut. For reasons known only to him, he was working through a repertoire of terrible songs while the surrounding partygoers desperately tried to escape the horror – or danced, if they were drunk enough. Lily rapped sharply on the door with her knuckles in case Camelia hadn’t heard her voice over the nasal drone of The Cheeky Girls.

Three days prior, Lily had been washing her hands in the girls’ toilets at school when Camelia accosted her, telling her in no uncertain terms that she was not ‘allowed’ to go to James Potter’s birthday party because she, Camelia, had a vested interest in becoming his girlfriend. According to a set of feminist principles that appeared to have been pulled from Camelia’s arse, such interest was akin to flag-planting, and didn’t Lily agree?

“Um,” Lily had replied, her eyes darting to Mary, who was trying so hard to suppress her laughter that she’d poked herself in the face with her mascara wand. “I’m going anyway, and I don’t think warning me off a boy really comes beneath the feminist umbrella.”

Lily thought that she had been clear, but she must have been speaking Dutch; Camelia burst into tears and darted into the under-stairs bathroom as soon as she caught sight of her.

“ _Touch my bum, this is life,_ ” Mary sang, while Lily rattled the door handle uselessly.

“Seriously, Camelia?” she cried, and banged on the door with her fist. “You can’t just stay in there all night!”

“Go away!” wailed Camelia from behind the door.

“People need to take shits, Cammie!” bellowed Mary. She placed her hands beneath her ample bosom and pushed upwards. “Do you think Bones noticed my tits earlier?”

“The Hubble Spacecraft has noticed your tits,” said Lily, and poked Mary’s boob. “That’s a safe yes.”

“She won’t come out.”

“I know.”

“So leave her there.”

“Should I, though?”

“Yes. It’s not like she’s your friend. I need a drink,” said Mary, and grabbed Lily by the wrist. “You’re coming with me.”

Lily gave the handle one last, useless try, then allowed Mary to drag her through the milling crowd, most of which were waiting to use the toilet. Mary pulled her past Euphemia Potter’s library, past the fancy living room and the larger downstairs bathroom, through the dining room and into the kitchen – a long, rectangular space with white stone walls, white surfaces and vomit-splattered hardwood floors. The smell was vile, but once Lily shut the heavy oak door behind them, the sound of awful pop music was mercifully muted. Mary immediately darted to the sink, which was surrounded by the contents of an off-licence.

“Seen Potter yet?” she asked Lily, while she rummaged through an assortment of bottles and cans.

Lily leaned against the cleanest countertop she could find. “Yup.”

“How did he look?”

“Like someone discovered my idea of physical perfection and created it in a lab, so, you know, half-decent.”

“Tell Camelia that, she’ll love you harder.”

“I did nothing to Camelia.”

“Except show up in that dress.”

“This dress isn’t responsible for her decision to fancy James when he’s not into her.”

“ _That_ dress broke up eight marriages on its way over here,” said Mary. “Aha!” She extracted a bottle of Smirnoff Ice from its hiding place, twisted the lid off with admirable force and took a deep, indulgent mouthful.  

“That’s better,” she said, once she was done, and licked her lips. “Is Snape still texting you?”

“Every two minutes.”

“Tell him to fuck off.”

Lily pulled a face at her friend and fished her phone from her purse. Sure enough, Sev had sent her three new messages since the last time she’d checked, roughly thirty seconds before Camelia caught sight of her and barricaded herself in the loo.

_Remember you don’t need to stay if you don’t want to. I don’t want you to get hurt by some boorish drunk._

_Lily, are you ok? Haven’t heard from you in a while. I can come and pick you up if you like._

_Lily???? Is everything ok?? You’re not replying. Has he upset you? Let me know you’re safe asap!_

She sighed, flipped her phone shut and stuffed it back into her purse. “Grab me a bottle.”

“Of what?”

“Anything that’s not already open and likely to put me in hospital.”

Mary opened a bottle of Bacardi Breezer and handed it over. "What's he saying?"

"He's panicking about me being here."

"Why?"

"He says he's worried for my safety, as if James is liable to murder me at any moment." 

"And you believe that?"

"No, he's just worried that James and I will make up."

“But you came here to make up with him.”

“I know, but I didn’t tell _him_ that,” said Lily impatiently. “With Sev, it’s always better to tell him this stuff _after_ it happens, then he can’t try to stop it from happening. He’s already offered to come and bring me home.”

"Fuck," was Mary's eloquent response. She pursed her plump, heavily-glossed lips as she considered the prospect. "You don't think he'll turn up, do you?" 

“No, he’ll only threaten it. I’ll pretend that my phone ran out of battery tomorrow.”

"Does he know what happened with you two?"

“No, and I’m not going to tell him,” said Lily darkly. She took a quick swig from her drink. It didn’t taste very nice. “He would have freaked out.”

Mary copied her, gulping from her own bottle. “Why, though? You turned Potter down.”

“But I didn’t _want_ to, did I? How do you think Sev would react if he found out why? I’m trying to broker a peace between the two of them and this wouldn’t help.”

“Because Snape would use it to his advantage.”

“No, because—“ Lily sighed. “Because he’d use it to his advantage, yes.”

"I keep telling you what you should do with Snape –" 

"I _know_." 

"—But let me tell you one more time. It _doesn’t_ involve gentle responses to his crazy texts and constantly assuring him that you’re still bestest best friends forever,” Mary finished. “He's like, in love with you, and if he finds out that he can keep you and Potter apart, he’ll never agree to play nice." 

"He's not in love with me," said Lily, and to her own ears her voice sounded tired. "I know he’s difficult, but I can’t just cut him off. I’m his only friend and he has so many problems."

"One of which is that he's obsessed with you – in a _Single White Female_ kind of way, except he’s a boy and he’s hot for your body.”

"He's not hot for—"  

"Shut up.  _I'm_  hot for your body right now. I don't know if it's you I want, or the dress."  

"Who would you rather, me or Eddie Bones?"  

Mary smirked. "Okay, it's the dress."  

Lily didn’t particularly like what she was drinking, but she downed as much of it as she could in one mouthful and set the bottle on the counter next to a stack of dirty plates and Algernon’s drinking bowl. Worryingly, there was a condom wrapper floating on the water. She hoped that James had had the foresight to lock the bedrooms. “I need to talk to James.”

“Birthday sex?”

“ _Mary_!”

“What?” Mary blinked her long, curly lashes in an excellent imitation of innocence. “You want to.”

“James is the last boy I ever kissed, and I was nine at the time,” Lily reminded her. “I’m _far_ from wanting to.”

“All the more reason to rip that plaster off. What are you going to say to him?”

“I need to – I dunno, fuck it. Do I need to prepare something? I haven’t talked to him in two weeks, I just want to see him.”

"Thought you saw him earlier?"  

"Yeah, but that was just a brief glimpse as I came in the door, and he was looking the other way," she said, indicating towards the kitchen door with her bottle as if James was lurking behind it. "It wasn't, like, a proper conversation. He hasn't seen  _me._  He hasn't seen—"  

"The dress," said Mary. 

"Well, no. Or yes. I mean, no. He hasn’t seen me _in_ the dress.”  

The dress was sexy, and Lily didn’t need Mary’s assurances to know it. That small swathe of fabric had been enough to trample whatever plans Camelia Pinkstone had been mulling over, because even Lily could tell that she looked good in it. Wearing it made her feel like she’d slipped into another identity. In this dress she was sexy Lily, flirty Lily, Lily who did what she wanted, and that was nice – or would be, until morning came along and whatever high she was riding on faded in the cold light of Severus Snape’s constant, cloying, all-encompassing neediness.

She had bought the dress especially for James’s party, and the accord she reached with herself at the time was that there was no motive for the purchase beyond looking good for herself. Which was a fat, barefaced lie, really.

But she’d been telling a lot of lies lately.

* * *

“Why did you leave Evan McNamee in charge of the music?”

James, who was heavily embroiled in a thrilling game of _God of War_ , didn’t look away from the television. “What are you on about?”

“He’s got a turntable set up downstairs, and he is properly awful,” bleated Curtis in his snobbish sheep’s voice. “He had the Vengaboys playing five minutes ago. Girls are _leaving._ ”

James laughed. “He’s just expressing himself, mate. What do you want me to do about it?”

“You’re the host. You can come down with me and tell him to sod off.”

“Can’t, busy being heroic.”

“Lily Evans is downstairs.”

“Yeah, let’s go sort McNamee out,” James agreed, and tossed the controller over his shoulder.

Crabtree and Toots scrambled over one another to grab the controller when James threw it away, while the rest of the room's inhabitants – a few of his mates and a whole bunch of strangers – were too drunk to know where they were. To complete the picture, two arduous boys were pressed against the radiator in a steamy embrace, tongues exploring, hands travelling beneath their clothes, probably minutes away from having full blown-sex on the floor.

Not that James, an eighteen-year-old virgin with no potential mate on the horizon, would know anything about that. He hadn’t anticipated that he’d be forced to watch other people getting frisky in the upstairs lounge at his own party, especially not when the physical act of love was so far from his own grasp – unless he wanted to love himself. It was dead unfair. He was the birthday boy, didn’t anyone care about what he wanted?

“Congratulations, lads,” he said to the couple on his way out, thankful that he’d had the foresight to lock the bedroom doors.

McNamee was treating his audience to some obnoxious electro-pop when they got downstairs and Curtis headed straight for him like an Olympic sprinter, scattering drunk teenagers left and right. Meanwhile, James scanned the throng for any sign of Lily, to no avail. He would have noticed her immediately; he had an exceptional talent for spotting her in a crowd.

“I’m getting a drink,” he said, to nobody in particular. Curtis was locked in verbal combat with McNamee and it was pointless to interrupt. He shrugged and pushed past a long line of disgruntled-looking people who had formed a queue outside the toilet.

He let out a large, indulgent belch when he entered the kitchen, so of course it came to be that Lily was in there, sitting on the counter and tucking into a tub of ice cream she’d balanced on her thighs. She looked up at him when he walked in, no doubt startled by his bodily functions.

“Ah,” he said, and turned redder than a tomato. She wore a tiny, cherry red dress and looked as if she’d stepped out of an erotic dream. If the belch hadn’t already moved him to a state of near-catatonic humiliation, the sight of her would have sent him to his knees. “Shit. Well. Hello.”

She pulled the spoon from her mouth and waved it at him. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

She gave him a sad, pitying smile. “We’ve covered that.”

They hadn’t spoken in two weeks, and it had been entirely his fault, because a complete lack of reason and sensitivity had convinced him to tell her that years of witty, harmless flirtations had awoken real, honest-to-goodness feelings in his pathetic little heart. Who could have guessed that his rivalry with Severus Snape – a rivalry that had resulted in several physical fights, and in Lily playing the unwitting role of rag doll, pulled one way and then the other while her two closest friends demanded that she choose between them – might have been a factor in her answer?

James. James could have guessed. Had he ever heeded her repeated requests to stop fighting with Snape, or at least stop putting her in the middle of their mutual hatred, _before_ he asked her out, he might have fared a lot better. After all, he and Lily were best friends, and she always found it hard to stay mad at him when he pissed her off. But he did what he wanted, as he always did, and this time it was too much. This time, he’d been branded an insensitive git for his trouble. She had cried. It had all been very ugly.

Not speaking to her was painful in a way he hadn’t anticipated. It felt wrong, insufferable and insurmountable to be apart from her for such a long time, and he never wanted that to happen to them again. He also had no idea how to put those thoughts into words.

So they shared a moment of awkward, shifty-eyed silence, before… “Fancy some ice cream?” she said.

Relief flooded his scrawny, half-drunk body. “Yeah, I’m pretty – hang on.” He pointed to the tub in her lap. “That’s mine.”

“That’s why I’m offering.” She patted the counter. “C’mere.”

He readily did as he was told, and hoisted himself up on the counter next to her. "Now what?"  

"Open wide," she instructed, waving the spoon under his nose.  

"Can't you just give me the spoon?"  

"What, let you have control of the tub and hog all the cookie dough?" She snorted. "It'll be a cold day in hell when that happens."  

"Your germs are all over that spoon." 

Lily arched an eyebrow. "Do you remember what you asked me to give you for your birthday?" 

"Yeah." 

"Do you still want that?"  

His heart gave a whopping great thump. "Yes."  

"Then eat the fucking ice cream. I'm not snogging you with booze breath.”

* * *

 _It is March 27_ _ th _ _, 2015, and James Potter’s twenty-seventh birthday. He celebrates with his colleagues – who also happen to be his best friends – that night, at a restaurant where the staff gather together to sing “Happy Birthday” to its patrons, which appeals to his deeply-ingrained need to show off. As for Lily Evans, she kept her promise and turned up, bringing with her one of the nine presents she bought. It’s probably a wise choice._

By Friday, Lily had started to suspect that Sirius Black didn’t like her. Perhaps he sensed it, because he decided to give her a helping hand during James’s birthday dinner, while she was waiting by the restaurant’s bar for a drink.

“I don’t like you,” he muttered in her ear, startling her – not least because he pressed himself up against her back to do it, and she could feel parts of his body that she had no desire to know. She shrugged him off quickly and moved away, so he took her spot at the bar and leaned against it, smiling as pleasantly as if they were discussing the weather.

He smelled sickly sweet – a strange mixture of blackberries and alcohol that seemed a little artificial, almost like an air freshener.

“What are you doing?” she asked him, and pulled her cardigan tight around her body.

“Telling you a home truth.”

“I meant what are you doing rubbing yourself up on me?” she impatiently clarified. “Do you always do that to women you don’t like, or have I not been informed about some creepy initiation ceremony?”

“I wasn’t rubbing up on you, that’s just how it happened. But I bet you liked it,” he added, and grinned, his dark eyes glittering. “I bet you like _me_. You wouldn’t turn it down if I offered, would you?”

"I'd turn you down," she said coldly. "Don't offer.

He scowled. "Then you've got bad taste. Or you're lying. I'm fit."

Lily looked over at their booth. James - proudly sporting a plastic, golden crown - was engrossed in conversation with Peter while Beatrice posed for a selfie with her drink. Remus was in the bathroom, and the pretty date Sirius had brought along sat rigidly removed from the rest of the group, playing with her cuticles, clearly unhappy. Sirius had ignored her all night, but he’d certainly paid close attention to the drinks menu. By Lily’s count, he was on his fifth whiskey, but he may have had more before she arrived – which perhaps accounted for his behaviour, but didn’t excuse it.

She sighed heavily. The barman was being harassed by a rowdy hen party, but Lily had already ordered her drink and was stuck waiting until he made it.

"Are you seriously offended because I'm _not_ into you, even though I’ve just been informed – by you – that you dislike me?"

Sirius snorted, and winked at a tall girl with short hair and glasses who was walking by with a cocktail pitcher. "Hi, Katie."

"Fuck off, Black," said the mysterious Katie as she walked away. It was Lily's turn to snort.

"I thought women were supposed to like you, Black? James talks about you as if you’ve got girls begging you for dates. Which one of you was lying?"

"You're one to talk about liars."

"I certainly know how to spot one," she said, and crossed her arms. "What happened with Katie?"

"What?"

"Katie?" Lily repeated, and gestured to the girl who had rebuffed Black. She had seated herself and the pitcher in a nearby booth with a friend. Both women looked at Sirius and laughed derisively. "Why did she tell you to fuck off?"

Black scoffed. "She's a feminist."

"So?"

"So, nothing. She just can't take a joke."

"Oh. So you don't like women?"

"Never said that."

"Or is feminism the problem?"

"Never said that either."

"Why don’t you explain it? Since you're the one who abandoned your date to come over here and bother me - she seems to have had enough of you, by the way." At their booth, the pretty girl had stood up and was slinging her handbag over her shoulder. "Did you pay her any attention at all?"

He shrugged. "Sylvie wasn't for me. She was for James."

She gave an involuntary, unpleasant shudder. “What?”

“I’m not into the whole romance thing, Evans. She was my gift to him. What kind of best mate would I be if I didn’t help him get laid on his birthday?”

He smiled at her in an infuriatingly self-satisfied way and his expression was clear – this was open hostility. He wanted to upset her, and was very confident that he would succeed. It meant that he knew what she’d done to James, or he didn’t like the idea of James spending so much time with his former best mate. It could have been a mixture of both; Sirius didn’t seem like the type of person who often shared his toys.

In either case, James hadn’t shown a flicker of interest in Sylvie, so that smug smile was unwarranted. And though Lily didn't want to get involved in a teen-drama rivalry with one of her colleagues, and certainly not James's best friend, she also couldn't pretend that she hadn't heard him. 

“What kind of person gives another person as a gift?” she asked Sirius.

“It’s not like I slapped a bow on her arse.”

“That’s irrelevant; you’ve told me otherwise. Did James know that you brought her here to trade like cattle? Did _she_ know? I got the impression that she believed _you_ were her date.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because it’s a disgusting thing to do.”

“And what you did to James,” he said, and took a step forward, looming over her. “That wasn’t disgusting, was it?”

The barman finally returned with her cocktail, and Lily – who didn’t want to remain embroiled in this pointless, nasty conversation for a moment longer – slapped a £10 note into his hand before he could tell her the cost. “Keep the change,” she told him, and to Sirius, “I’m done speaking to you.”

“No, hold on,” he said, and blocked her path. “James told me what you did. You led him on. You let him think you were interested, and then you fucked off to Cambridge and broke his heart. How long did it take you to find another poor sap to play around with?”

Lily felt the heat rise in her cheeks and sweep across her chest, but she wasn’t about to lose her cool for the sake of a tragic glam-rock offshoot. “He used those exact words, did he?”

“What, James?” he said, and laughed dismissively. “No, he thinks the sun shines out of your fucking arse. But I met him right after you left, and he told me enough – see, he might not think you did anything wrong, but I know better. _I’m_ his best mate, and all I’m doing is trying to protect him from you, and whatever games you might be thinking about playing. So, I’m warning you—“

“What I did to James,” she interrupted, clutching her glass like a grenade. “I did _nine_ years ago, when we were teenagers. I’ve apologised – _profusely_ – and he’s accepted it, and if that’s not sufficient for you I don’t care, because it’s none of your bloody business. You did what you did _today_ ; don’t you dare try to hold me accountable for your shitty behaviour.”

She pushed past him and made for their booth.

“Oh, and another thing,” she added coldly, spinning back around. “Put a happy face on when you get back, I’m not letting you ruin his birthday.”

* * *

Remus Lupin was returning from the bathroom when he spotted Sirius and Lily mid-argument, so he did what any sensible person would do: returned to the booth and kept James distracted, feigning a bad cramp in his leg. He rapidly recovered when Lily joined them a moment later, Sirius following shortly behind, and observed them both with some curiosity for the rest of the evening. Though they seemed to be in good spirits, they never spoke directly to one another, and in Sirius’s eyes he could detect a hint of anger during quieter moments. Still, they were perfectly civil, so they must have come to some agreement to keep their fight to themselves.

Once they’d eaten and drank enough, and the waiter started to side-eye them whenever he thought they weren’t looking, the suggestion was made to go to Sirius and James’s flat, which was within walking distance, and continue the celebrations. Everyone agreed, and when they left the restaurant, Sirius immediately loped his arm around James’s shoulders and steered him far ahead of the group, throwing a smirk over his shoulder at Lily.

Remus quietly rolled his eyes.

“Which vegetable,” he said to Peter, who was sandwiched between him and Beatrice Booth while Lily hung awkwardly behind them all. “Is the best vegetable to purée?”

Beatrice threw him a look of absolute fury, but she couldn’t keep Peter from taking the bait – he was off, chattering excitedly about the vivid hue of pulverised peas. Remus slowed his walk and fell into step beside Lily, who looked up when she felt his presence.

“Evening.”

She stashed her phone in her handbag and gave him a tight smile. She was probably on her guard, cautious after her earlier run-in with Sirius. “Hey.”

“I thought I’d walk with you, since James is otherwise occupied and Peter’s about to start ruminating on the delights of a langoustine bisque,” he said, tugging on his scarf. “Which is a monologue I’d rather not listen to again.”

Ahead of them, Sirius and James launched into a lively rendition of “That’s Amore,” which elicited strange looks from others in the street. Lily smiled to herself, and hitched the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder.

“I don’t know how he can talk about food after the meal we’ve just had,” she said, and placed a hand on her tummy. “I’m completely stuffed.”

“Nothing puts Peter in the mood to talk about food more than eating it. Or not eating it. He’s always in the mood, really.”

“I see,” said Lily, with a nod. “You’re saying that food’s never off the table with him.”

“That’s an excellent pun.”

The smile she gave him this time was more relaxed. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So how far away is this flat?”

“It’s on Agar Grove, about fifteen minutes away.”

“Good,” she emphatically replied. “Could you give me a moment?”

She stopped walking and lifted one leg daintily behind her to tug at the straps of her high-heeled shoe with what Remus thought was remarkable balance, then repeated the process with the other foot. When she kicked them off, she hooked both on one finger by the straps and sighed happily.

“That’s so much better,” she said, resuming their walk. “My feet were in agony; I hate fancy shoes.”

“No wonder you and James get along so well.”

“I hope my feet smell better, at least.”

“I think you’re fine,” Remus assured her. “To James, taking his shoes off at work is an act of self-liberation. You’re just uncomfortable.”

“There are worse ways to self-liberate at work, I suppose.”

“I’m sure there are,” he agreed. “And that Sirius has tried most of them.”

“Remind me never to ask him what you mean.”

“Good choice. The possible outcome has too many variables, none of which are good.”

“Safer this way, really,” said Lily absently. In between her frequent glances at her feet, she was watching James and Sirius, who had switched abruptly from Dean Martin to Frank Sinatra with great enthusiasm. “Not that he’d talk to me about it, but still, better not to ask.”

“I saw you arguing earlier.”

“Ah,” she said, with a knowing smile. “So that’s why you’ve come to talk to me.”

“Yes and no. I mean, you _are_ my colleague, we should probably get to know each other if we’re to work together.”

“True,” said Lily. “But that’s not why you’re talking to me now.”

“Truthfully? I wanted to check that you were alright,” he admitted. “I’ve known Sirius for long enough to know that he probably started it, and I know that he can be vicious when he wants.”

“He was that,” said Lily. “But don’t worry about me, I’ve handled worse than Sirius Black, and to be honest, I don’t really think—” her voice caught, and she hugged her arms to her chest, her shoes dangling off her finger. “Never mind.”

“Please, don’t stop on account of me.”

Lily gave him a long look of appraisal, then stared at the ground, kicking a pebble away with her stockinged toe. “Hmm.”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“It’s just – I can’t really believe that he’s as bad as he acted,” she said, very quickly, as if the subject had been weighing on her all evening, which it probably had. “He made a disparaging comment – a half-comment, really – about feminism and accused me of wanting to sleep with him. If that’s who he is, why would James be friends with someone like that?”

Remus nodded as he took in her words. That Sirius would act in such a way was a little concerning, but tallied entirely with his own private summations. “I think I can shed some light on your concerns.”

They turned a corner, and Lily skipped lightly over a dirty, discarded fast food wrapper. “Yeah?”

“I’ve known Sirius for eight years,” he began. “And I’ve been friends with him for six. Once he becomes your friend – once he decides to be your friend – you’ll never know anyone more loyal, _or_ more devoted. He sees James as his brother, and he guards that friendship like buried treasure, terrified that someone is going to take it away from him, which isn’t something he should worry about, but you’re a special case, as it were.”

“Because I’m the former best friend,” said Lily, nodding. “He thinks I’ve come along to push him out.”

“I think he sees you as a threat to his position – which, of course, you’re not, because that kind of theory assumes that James only has room in his life for one person.”

“And we both know _that’s_ not true,” she finished for him. “Why is he so scared to lose him?”

“He’s got his reasons. You may learn them if you get to know him better, but it’s not for me to tell you what they are. Suffice to say, they’re very real.”

“Right.” She frowned at her toes. “So all of that stuff he said—“

“Was very likely said in anger, with specific intent to upset you.” He smiled at her. “That doesn’t make it right, and he’ll need to apologise, but I’ve never known him to be a misogynist.”

“He said that he’d brought that girl – Sylvie – as a present for James.”

Remus laughed. “Did he really?”

“Yeah, he did. Don’t you think that’s—“

“A bit of a stupid lie,” he finished, with a chuckle. “Which can be easily disproven if you ask anyone else here. He’s been seeing Sylvie for a couple of weeks – casually, of course, Sirius enjoys the physical side of things but he’s never been in an actual relationship with a woman, not to my knowledge – in any case, she wasn’t a new face, and she’s been perfectly aware that their arrangement is temporary.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “She’s talked to me about it. A lot of the women Sirius sees do, for some reason.”

“Perhaps you can offer them something he can’t,” she suggested. “Like an adult conversation.”

He laughed heartily at that theory, eliciting a nasty look from Beatrice, who was a few feet ahead of them and trapped in conversation with Peter, who was chirpily discussing the merits of classical French cooking. “She’s not happy.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t leave, too,” said Lily, giggling. “Why _did_ Sylvie leave, anyway, if she was so on board with the arrangement?”

“Well, she might have been alright with it, but Sirius still ignored her all evening,” said Remus fairly. “Distracted as he was by his jealousy of _you_ , I believe.”

“Oooh,” she replied, her eyes lighting up. “Am I a homewrecker now?”

“Looks like it.”

“I’ve never been a homewrecker, you know. I’ve lived a pretty boring existence.”

“You’re a detective,” Remus pointed out. “I doubt you’ve led a boring life.”

“That’s what you think,” she said, lifting her finger. “When I was younger, my friend Mary used to call me Lily Vanilly, because I never did anything bad. I hated it, but she did it all the time. Still does, actually. Even being a copper isn’t exciting enough for me to shrug that nickname.”

He laughed. “Did James agree with her?”

“Nah. He always thought I was interesting,” she said, and a softness came over her face, a rosy glow that couldn’t be attributed to the streetlights or the passing traffic. “But then, he was the only person who could ever convince me to misbehave. He got all of the fun stuff.”

“You two were close, I hear.”

“Yeah, we were.” Lily was watching James’s back, smiling so reverentially that Remus had to wonder if she’d ever had feelings for him. “Being his best friend is a pretty special thing, you know. I do get how Sirius feels.”

“Perhaps that’s something for you to bond over.”

“Or something to make him hate me more,” she mused. “Are we nearly there?”

“A couple more minutes, I think,” said Remus, the cogs in his head spinning. James’s feelings regarding Lily’s appearance weren’t hard to gauge; not only did he look at her like she was the Sistine Chapel, he had also been happier in the past five days than he had been in a very long time – and James was a cheerful person in general. As for Lily, Sirius would have them all believe that she was entirely indifferent to their mutual friend, but that wasn’t the impression Remus was getting.

He wondered.

“Has James told you why he calls me Moony?” he asked her. “Why they all call me Moony, really.”

“No,” she said, tearing her eyes away from James. “But I’ve been meaning to ask him. I assumed it was because your name was Lupin.”

“That’s part of it, but no. It’s a pretty good story, though you’d never convince James to tell it.”

“Okay, now you _have_ to tell me.”

“As you wish,” he said, with a chuckle. “So, pardon the melodrama, but it all started when James saved my life.”

“Really?” Lily looked ahead at James, who was riding on Sirius’s shoulders, completely unaware that Remus had brought his past heroics into the conversation. “He never said. What did he do? Protect you from a perp or something?”

“No, nothing like that – though I’m sure he would, if he ever needed to. I actually had a cerebral aneurysm about two years ago. Don’t worry,” he added quickly, in response to Lily’s horror-struck expression, one he’d gotten quite used to seeing on people’s faces when they spotted the scar that ran along his hairline and asked about it. “I’m fine. No lasting damage, no epilepsy – I got extremely lucky.”

She had stopped walking, and gaped at him. “Oh my god.”

“Maybe lucky isn’t the right word,” he amended, halting. “But luckier than I might have been.”

“Are you – I mean, are you alright? I’m _so_ sorry. I had no idea—“

“It’s really fine,” he interrupted her, and tapped his head with his index finger. “I’m not in any danger of keeling over, but if I do, you might have to drop your shoes.”

Lily immediately let her shoes fall to the ground. “Done and done.”

“I hope they’re not expensive?”

“Nope, they’re from Primark,” she admitted, with an embarrassed smile. “But I’d drop them even if they were worth a thousand quid.”

“Only a thousand?”

“Maybe a bit more. I’m not made of money,” she retorted, and they both laughed. “I’m glad you’re okay, though. That must have been terrifying.”

“A little bit, yes.”

“Were you in hospital for long?”

“Eight weeks,” he said. “I’d been home sick with what I’d thought was a migraine for a couple of days, and I – well, the details are hazy – but I was trying to take a shower one morning and couldn’t move properly, wasn’t balancing – and my flatmate was out, so I was by myself. But then James rang me to see how I was doing. I answered the phone, but I couldn’t speak properly. He says that I was gurgling.”

Though James and Sirius were having a loud conversation about something up ahead, it was he who had her undivided attention. Her bright green eyes were fixed on his face.

“Anyway, he knew that something was wrong, so he called an ambulance and came straight over, kicked in my door, all of that. Real action hero stuff,” he added, with a short laugh. “I was out cold by the time he got there but they were able to get me to hospital quickly, thanks to him. I would have died if he hadn’t.”

She gripped his arm, like a compulsive reflex. “Wow.”

“While I was in recovery –after I’d regained my speech and motor functions – James came to visit me. He’d had this great idea for me to train as a detective once I got better so I could join him and Sirius and Peter in the CID and not have to exert myself, and he couldn’t wait to tell me all about it.”

“Typical James.”

“Anyway, while we were talking, James made some joke about how I must have been a werewolf, because he’d found me with no clothes on and werewolves always blacked out and woke up naked, and because even an aneurysm wasn’t strong enough to kill me.” He grinned. “So, now I’m—”

“Moony!” cried James, bounding over to them. He was still wearing his plastic crown, though it sat lopsidedly on his head. “What’ve you two stopped for?”

“Just having a chat,” Remus replied. He'd have to tell James later that he'd been talking him up – something he’d never done for a friend before, but seemed to be good at. Perhaps James would be so grateful that he'd stop pestering him to download ridiculous mobile games. “Where’s Sirius?”

“Stopped in the offy for vodka,” said James absently. He looked at Lily’s feet. “Evans?”

“Yes?” said Lily.

“Why’d you take your shoes off?”

“They were hurting my feet,” she explained, and James looked up at her with the same expression he usually wore when Remus let him have his oft-confiscated bouncy ball. Her eyes widened with some sudden comprehension. “What are you thinking?”

He grinned cheekily. “You know what I’m thinking.”

“You _wouldn’t_.”

“I would.”

“I’m heavier than I used to be!”

“You dirty liar,” he accused. “Up you get!”

Lily squealed with unrestrained pleasure when James swooped down and lifted her, princess style, in his arms, her own encircling his neck immediately. “You cheeky shit!”

“Shut up, or I’ll throw you over my shoulder,” he threatened, and she laughed, her bare feet kicking in the air, like a puppy wagging its tail. “Flat’s just down the road; I’m taking you upstairs. Say goodbye to Moony, now.”

“Goodbye, Moony,” she said obediently, though she was still laughing heartily. “I’m so sorry, he used to do this all the time when we – oi!” she cried, as he spun around in a circle. “Don’t make me sick!”

“Focus on my face, then. Nobody could be sick looking at that.”

“Maybe I’ll be sick _on_ your face.”

“That’s not the ominous threat you think it is.”

And on James walked, one of the brightest detectives in the metropolitan police, drunkenly carrying his professional partner home like a new bride while she blushed and giggled and enjoyed herself immensely. Remus watched them go, smiling, and was shortly joined by Beatrice, who had managed to escape Peter’s musings for the meantime.

“They _definitely_ used to be into each other,” she said, smoothing her long, brown hair. “Right?

“Used to," Remus repeated, and laughed to himself.

* * *

_It is April 2 nd, 2006, well past midnight but not close to sunrise. James Potter’s eighteenth birthday party has petered out in the same way most parties do, with revellers breaking off in groups and vanishing into the night, while others have claimed spots on armchairs and floors, and drifted off into heavy, drunken stupors. Lily’s escort has vanished, and while James hasn’t cashed in on her promised birthday kiss, she desperately wants him to._

“Mary texted me back,” Lily called out, and picked up her phone from the side of the sink.

“Oh?” James replied from the other side of the door. “Where is she?”

“She went to Eddie Bones’ flat.”

“Doesn’t he live near Ministry of Sound?”

“Yup, and I’m not going across the river at this time of night,” she said, forcing a note of impatience into her voice. If she were being honest, she was perfectly happy about her friend’s behaviour, even if her overnight bag was locked in the boot of Mary’s car. She could live without cleansing lotion for one night.

With a sigh, she put her phone back down and examined herself in the mirror. While she could tell that her face was flushed beneath her foundation, her makeup had remained intact, and she’d unpinned her hair when her head started to ache from the heat downstairs. It hung loose and fluffy around her shoulders, wavy tendrils of red against James’s soft grey t-shirt. He’d shot up several inches recently, and his clothes were starting to swamp her.

She unlocked the bathroom door, and wiped her lipstick off with the back of her hand. Red lips felt somehow treacherous, like they weren’t really hers, like it would be another girl kissing him – sexy Lily, flirty Lily – when really, she was just Lily, and James had never needed more than that. She hadn’t kissed him since she was nine-years-old and that had been an innocent, fleeting thing, a rash decision they made as they sat with their bare feet in his paddling pool.

This, though... this was different. This carried weight. This was a gateway to other things, and opening it would change them irrevocably.

“I guess you’ll be needing a place to sleep, then,” he said to her, when she came out of his en-suite. He sat cross-legged on his bed, iPod in hand, one earbud in and the other out, as if this was any other day, but the top of his ears were red.

“If you don’t mind.”

“No problem. I’ve already kicked Algernon off your side.”

“Cool,” she said, and hugged her arms to her chest. “Thanks.”

“And you – er, you look really beautiful.”

She blushed furiously – of course she did – because James had never, in thirteen years, told her she was beautiful before. If hearts could glow, hers was probably luminous, but instead of expressing this thought she stared at her feet, unable to meet his eyes. She’d painted her toenails red to match the dress and they contrasted starkly with her pale skin. “My dress doesn’t get a compliment like that, but your pyjamas do?”

“You look good in my pyjamas.”

She peeked at him through her fringe.

“And in the dress,” he hastily added, and yanked the other earbud out. “You looked – to be honest, it’s best if I don’t say what your dress did to my head, because you’d slap me and storm out.”

“Do you really mean that?”

He nodded.

Her body was tingling, not just the tips of her fingers or the space in her gut where butterflies were meant to grow and flutter, but another place, a place that was buried in her core, a place that was everywhere and nowhere at once. Mary had been right all along, of course. Lily _wanted_ him, her best friend, this lanky, too-skinny boy with exquisite dimples and chaotic black hair, this idiot who thought she was beautiful – desired him in a way she’d never desired anyone. She was kidding herself if she pretended that her proffered kiss was just for his benefit.

“Do you want to sit down?” he said, breaking into whatever momentary daze she had found herself in, and gestured to the space beside him on his bed. “I’m not going to bite you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Sure.”

She scrambled onto his bed and tucked herself by his side, legs bent at an angle, her body turned towards his. She felt confident that her face was bright red, despite the powder she’d used to hide it.

“You okay?” said James.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About what you just said.” She tugged at a lock of her own hair. “How long have you felt that way?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “A few years? Don't freak out or anything,” he hastily added, noticing her expression. "The physical stuff was just – I was already, um, _there_ anyway, y'know? Because you're so clever. And funny. And you care about people, like Pinkstone, even though she's awful to you and didn't come out of the toilet for two hours."

He was slowly killing her, but she forced herself to keep it light. "Are you sure she's not still in there?"

"She could be under the bed."

"Or hiding behind the curtains."

"She could be disguised as Algernon," James suggested, and Lily looked at the cat, who was snoozing on his dresser. "Although I think I'd notice."

"The lack of general disdain would give it away."

"Oi,” he warned her. “Be nice, or I’ll make you sleep on the floor.”

“Maybe I should sleep on the floor,” she quipped, even while her every instinct screamed at her to stop talking, stop talking, stop talking. “I know your secret now. Are you sure you can keep your hands to yourself?”

“I’ve kept them to myself every time you’ve slept over,” he reminded her. “So yeah.”

He sounded perfectly cheerful, but the look in his eyes told her that this was painful, joking around like this after he’d bared a part of himself to her and been soundly rejected. It occurred to her that he might not have realised that she’d offered to kiss him because she wanted to be kissed. Perhaps he couldn’t see that she was completely infatuated. Maybe he thought she’d simply taken pity on him, and had offered to kiss him as a show of charity. What a stupid, irresponsible mistake on her part. She was supposed to be better than this.

“I really like you,” she said. “You know that, right?”

He looked at her oddly. “Course I do, I’m your best mate.”

“No, no, not like that,” she said, and for a wild moment considered snogging him on the spot so he’d understand, but he deserved a real explanation after what she’d done. “I mean, like, romantic styles.”

He didn’t respond for a while, just frowned down at his duvet, and the ridiculous football sheets he'd had since he was eleven. She had slept on those sheets on many occasions, often right next to him and as recently as last Christmas – the Potters were warm and loving parents, but they weren’t particularly good at monitoring their sleepovers – but sitting silently on his bed right now, next to him, her arm brushing his arm, felt a lot more intimate than all those innocent nights spent watching movies and brushing popcorn kernels to the floor.

“So,” he said eventually. “Two weeks ago—“

“I wanted to say yes,” she interrupted, before he could come to some other, incorrect conclusion. “I really did. I mean, you’re my best friend and you’re brilliant, completely brilliant and hilarious and I’d trust you with my life, not you mention you’re, y’know—” The word had to fight its way out of her cowardly, constricted throat. “Gorgeous, and honestly, I don’t see how I could have avoided, um, feeling this way about you, but—“

“But Snape,” he quietly interjected, and looked up at her. “I know.”

“Do you, though? Because I feel like I explained it poorly, I was all panicky and emotional and I fucked it up, I know I did.”

“You didn’t,” he said, and his shoulder bumped hers. “You didn’t fuck it up. I shouldn’t have expected you to be okay with dating me when I’ve made no effort to make things better with Snape. I know you were upset because of that, and not because I told you how I feel.”

“I’d had a really shitty day, I reacted badly.”

“It’s fine. I mean, I did get the impression that you weren’t interested, but—“

“I am interested,” she said, and grabbed his hand, which was warm and solid and had gotten so large at some point. “It’s just that with you and Sev, there’s drama every time you come into contact. One of you upsets the other and then you fight, and I feel like I’m refereeing, like I’m being forced to choose between you, put in an impossible position as always, and it’s not – it’s not fair. Not on me. If I was your girlfriend – and I _really_ want to be your girlfriend.”

An irrepressible, irresistible smile had spread across his face. “I really want you to be my girlfriend.”

“I know,” she said, and gave his hand a squeeze. He squeezed back and her heart _hurt_. “I know, and I want us to get there, but with Sev right now – you know it’d cause problems. He’s difficult, I know that too, but I can’t abandon him because he’s got nobody else, you _know_ what his home life is like, and if he ever – if something happened to him, I wouldn’t forgive myself if I’d cut him out of my life and I could have helped. So I need you, I mean, I’m asking you if you’ll try to be civil. Not friends, or anything, just civil. If you could both agree to disagree, or stop fighting, or even hate each other in secret, I don’t care. Anything is better than how things are now.”

“Are you going to ask him to do the same?”

“Yes, I will, I promise.”

“And if I keep up my end, and he doesn’t?”

“Then he’s gone,” she said. “I swear.”

He looked down at their entwined fingers, then moved his eyes over her face. They were hazel, but behind his glasses and in the warm light of his bedroom, they had darkened to a deeper brown.

“Okay,” he said, after a moment.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Don’t you want to think about it?”

“Don’t need to,” he said solemnly. “Look, I hate the bloke. I’m never going to like him – I think he’s a liar and I think he takes advantage of you because you’re kind and you like taking care of people, but if you want me to be nice, I’ll be nice. I’ll take him out for afternoon tea every Sunday, if it means I end up with you. Anything you want, I’ll do it.”

One breathless, anxious giggle escaped her. “Anything?”

He nodded. “On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Buttering Snape up might take a while, since he loves hating me, so I’ll need something to tide me over while I wait.” He grinned wickedly at her. “I think I’ll have that kiss now.” 

Her insides erupted with excitement. “Finally! I’ve been waiting _hours_.”

He laughed. “So what? I’ve been waiting weeks.”

“Months.”

“Years.”

“Same,” she said, tilting her chin proudly in the air. “You’re not the only one who gets to pine.”

“Oh, _you’ve_ been pining, have you?”

“Maybe,” she said airily. “Maybe that’s why I’ve never kissed anyone else; been too busy waiting for you to get off your arse and do it.”

“I’ve kissed you before.”

“When we were kids. That wasn’t a proper kiss, not really, not with—“

“Tongues?” he helpfully suggested.

“Don’t get all scientific on me.”

“I’m just making sure!”

“You’re not exactly setting the mood, Potter,” she scolded him, though she couldn’t hold back the smile that had taken hold of her, and nor could he. “I’m trying to arrange my first proper snog here and it’s supposed to be romantic, but you’re sitting there smirking and I might—“

He kissed her.

A soft, surprised sound escaped her lips, but she eagerly responded. Her hands found their way into his hair; his were on her waist, guiding her; she was sinking into his pillows; he was on top of her and it didn’t matter because his lips were soft and it felt as if they’d been made to do this – they _should_ have been doing this all along. She was being kissed the way girls were kissed in movies and it was like lightning in her veins, like magic, like the whole world had ground to a halt around them while oceans parted, like the first blush of teenage passion, heady and exciting and sweet.

She had asked for romance and that was just what he gave her, because James Potter would have done anything for her, even stop the world from spinning.

 _I love you_ , she thought, but didn’t say it.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s time for another glossary! 
> 
> Waltzer = Tilt-a-Whirl  
> Quavers = a kind of crisps = potato chips
> 
> Also, it bears highlighting that in England, most police officers don’t carry guns, nor do they ever learn how to use them. Only specially trained firearm officers are taught how to use guns and detectives have no need for them, as their job does not generally involve physical action. Just in case anyone is confused by a certain character’s less-than-perfect aim during one scene in this chapter.
> 
> Just a note, I'll be taking a one-week break from updating following this chapter, so chapter 6 will be up on June 7th. Though the story is completed, there's a lot of editing to do on later chapters, and as I am going to be away on vacation for about 7 days total over the course of the next two weeks, I need to give myself the time. If I don't, I'll just end up delaying the later chapters, which would be the worst. So a one week break it is!
> 
> Thank you to cgner for James Potter's inspired text messaging style. That one is all hers.

**Chapter Five**  

_It is March 28 th, 2015, and James Potter’s birthday celebration came to an end several hours ago. Lily Evans, who lives further from James than any of their colleagues, spent the night, though she slept on the couch, and he in his bed. Five days can’t be expected to undo nine years, though they’ve made very light work of their reacquaintance thus far. There was no funny business, in case you were wondering. Nonetheless, he wakes up in an irrepressibly good mood. Sirius Black, on the other hand, arises that morning feeling decidedly less cheerful. _

“What was that noise?”

“What noise?”

“I heard a bang,” said Sirius. “Just now? It came from in here.”

“Oh, that.” James was shirtless, bleary eyed from little sleep and sporting hair which looked as if it had been through a squall. He held up a saucepan that was missing its handle. “The handle snapped off when I took it out of the cupboard. You must have heard it hit the ground.”

With a pang of disappointment, Sirius set his cricket bat on the floor, propped against the kitchen wall. He stretched, clenching the muscles in his upper back until he felt the satisfying crack between his shoulder blades, and swung his arms down to his sides. “I thought we were being robbed,” he said thickly, stifling a yawn.

“No, you _hoped_ we were being robbed.”

“Any coffee?” he said, and opened the fridge. He removed a carton of milk and took a sniff before swigging.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“In Starbucks down the road,” said James, squinting at the broken handle. “I need a screwdriver to fix this back on. Where do we keep our tools?”

“What makes you think we have tools?”

James shrugged. “I dunno. We’re men?”

“Go across the hall and borrow one from Edwards – only don’t, because what the fuck do you need with a saucepan at 8am?”

“I’m building a birdhouse. What do you think?” James turned his back on Sirius and opened one of the cupboards, where they stored their pots and pans. “Have you seen the rest of these? They’re all burned at the bottom.”

“What are you cooking?”

“Why are all of our saucepans burned?”

“I don’t know,” said Sirius, who knew. He had burned them. Though he wouldn’t admit as much to another living soul, he had a bedtime ritual upon which he heavily relied, one that involved hot milk and whiskey. Sadly, he had not yet perfected the art of not destroying every cooking implement he touched – a poor man’s Midas. “Maybe Peter did it when he cooked us that weird chicken?”

“That wasn’t chicken, it was something else. Pheasant?”

“Pigeon?”

“Dodo, maybe. Peter wouldn't burn anything, he's dead careful.”

"Fine, Peter's funky chicken didn't burn the saucepan," Sirius conceded. "Anyway, what are you cooking?”

“I thought I’d make us breakfast. Scrambled eggs sounded good, but all of the saucepans are fucked. Any ideas?”

“Depends.” Having emptied the milk carton, Sirius placed it back in the fridge and shut the door, rattling the collection of half-empty bottles of Heineken on the inside shelf. “Who is _us_? You and Evans? I know she’s in the shower.”

“And?”

“Did you fuck her last night?”

“What?” James didn’t slam the saucepan down on the countertop, but he didn’t place it gently either. The look he gave Sirius was one of disgust – that had been asked such a thing, Sirius assumed, not at the thought of fucking Evans, an act that James was clearly thirsty to accomplish. “No, I did _not_ fuck her. Everyone was here until ages after you passed out and she lives in Colindale, so I let her sleep on the sofa.”

“You want to fuck her, though.”

“Could you get off the subject of fucking her, please? That’s my friend you’re talking about.”

A week ago, Evans was nothing to James, now they were _friends_. It was enough to turn the stomach of a far hardier man. “Fine,” Sirius muttered. “What’ll you make instead of eggs? Spaghetti and testicles? Your dick in a hot dog bun? It wouldn’t be a very big hot dog, but I won’t stand in your way. Shall I fetch you a sharp bade and some squirty mustard?”

“Seriously, mate, don’t say things like that in front of her.”

“You’re not letting me have any fun.”

“I don’t care.” James picked up a rubber spatula and pointed it in his face. “I want you to be nice to her.”

“Why? What happens if I don’t? You flip me over so I brown evenly on both sides?”

The corners of James’s lips twitched, but he made no other indication of amusement. “I’ll just make bacon sandwiches.”

Sirius bristled. “If you even think of feeding our bacon to her, I’ll throw it straight in the bin.”

“It’s not _our_ bacon, it’s mine, because I paid for it. Also, you can’t throw out perfectly good food.”

“Why not?”

“Because of all the starving jungle kids.”

“What starving jungle kids?”

“The ones who live in the jungle.”

“Oh right, those children. What jungle is this you’re talking about?”

“Er.” James pushed his glasses up his nose. “The one from _The Jungle Book._ ”

“Which is in…?”

“Er, India?”

Sirius didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know the location of the eponymous jungle, so he settled for a dry laugh. “You can tell Mowgli and the dancing chimp that I’m really sorry, but I’m not letting you cook a romantic meal for Evans in _my_ kitchen.”

“King Louie is a dancing _orangutan_ , you fucking philistine,” said a repulsed James, and swung the spatula at his head. Sirius dodged out of the way just as Evans walked into the kitchen. Her hair was tied in a long, damp braid that hung heavy over one shoulder, and she wore James’s football shorts beneath his _Captain America_ t-shirt. She looked daisy-fresh and far too comfortable for Sirius’s liking, as if she belonged in his home, with _his_ best mate, when he hadn’t granted permission for either.

“Morning,” she said, with her stupid, lilting voice and her pretty eyes. Even Sirius had noticed her eyes, which were stunning, and just now taking in the spatula with some trepidation. “What have I walked in on?”

“Fratricide,” he aridly replied.

“Sirius thinks we had sex last night,” James told her. “See, he’s never had a female friend, so he thinks you’re supposed to bang every overnight guest with a vagina.”

“Oh.” Evans pursed her lips and stared at Sirius for a moment. “I mean, I tried my best, but James wouldn’t put out.”

“I told you,” he said, grinning at her. “I’m saving myself for McGonagall.”

James and Evans kept doing this thing, Sirius had noticed, this thing that drove him up the wall, this thing where they’d look at each other and smile their goofy, vapid smiles, as if nobody else could possibly fathom the complexities of whatever hysterical secret they were sharing, as if it was just the two of them in their little club while the rest of humanity was relegated to an outsider’s perspective. They shouldn’t have been so comfortable so soon; Sirius had been counting on a period of awkwardness and stilted conversations. He had hoped that James would be wiser than to leap headfirst into an attachment with this stupid girl and her stupid, pretty eyes, but they’d snapped together like Lego bricks.

“We were talking about breakfast,” Sirius baldly proclaimed, lest they nauseate him further. “James was going to make bacon sandwiches.”

“You can’t do that,” said Lily immediately. “It’s your birthday week, you should be getting waited on.”

“I thought you said I couldn’t have a birthday week?”

“I was young and stupid then—“

“Five days ago.”

“Shut up,” she ordered, her lips slanted in a begrudging smile. “Since you let me sleep over and use your shower, and because you’re the birthday boy, I thought I’d order us breakfast. All three of us,” she added, and caught Sirius’s gaze with a pointed expression. “I’ve already checked online and there are a few places that deliver. Anything you both want, on me. What do you guys think?”

James looked at Sirius, and Sirius chewed his tongue. He wanted Evans to leave immediately, but he also wanted a free breakfast. James saved him from rendering his opinion by accepting on his behalf, and so the decision was made to purchase breakfast from a local restaurant that they both really liked. He tried to get a dig in by ordering expensive options, but Evans didn’t bat an eyelid at his request.

“ETA is thirty minutes, so I hope you’re both hungry,” she said, once she’d gotten off the phone.

“I’m starving,” said James happily, like a mischievous child who had managed to reunite his divorced parents using a combination of pranks and bedwetting. “I’m just going to hop in the shower. Keep Sirius company, would you? He misses me terribly when I’m not around.”

“I don’t need—“

“Of course,” said Lily, her voice even. She smiled at Sirius. “It’s about time we got to know each other.”

“Cool, back in a few.” James pushed himself away from the counter and slid past Lily to the kitchen door, but he touched her hand on his way out – Sirius _saw_ it – his fingers lacing with hers for the briefest of moments; one quick, fluid motion before they were gone, and the blush of pink across her cheeks was the only remnant of their presence. “You look very pretty this morning, by the way.”

Five days, Sirius thought, and James was already in fucking love with her. He didn't particularly want to be in a room with Evans, so once he determined that James was in the bathroom, he picked up his cricket bat, swung it upward and allowed it to rest on his shoulder, intending to go back to his bedroom until the food arrived. She eyed it with mild interest. 

"So it ends in murder, then?" she dryly remarked. "That's a bit extreme, don't you think."

Sirius would have given a lot to find her unfunny at that moment, but a traitorous part of his brain wanted to laugh. He forced his features into a disdainful scowl. "Unfortunately, killing you would get in the way of my illustrious career."

She shrugged. "Not if you disposed of the body right. Or if you slept with the right people."

"Thanks for the tip," he replied. "Maybe I'll kill you later."

"Or we could decide to work on not hating each other."

"I'll pass," he said, and made to leave the room, but she cleared her throat loudly, and he turned around. "What now?"

"You're James's best friend."

"Yeah, I already know that."

"No, I mean, I'm telling you that  _I_ know that," she said. Water was dripping from the end of her braid and James’s shorts were far too big for her, but she still managed to impress upon him some amount of strength, which he supposed was a feat in itself. "So you can back off with the whole guard dog thing, yeah? I'm not trying to take over your turf, or whatever. I'm perfectly aware of the hierarchy here, but I'm too old to be invested in a stupid squabble with you or anyone else."

"If you're waiting for me to apologise for what I said last night—“ he began, but Lily stayed him with a raised hand.

“No, I don’t want you to apologise for what you said last night. For what you _did_? Absolutely, I think you should. It was disgusting.”

“I apologised to your good friend Remus and told him to tell you.”

“Well, he must have forgot to relay the message – whatever, that's not even what I’m talking about.”

He swung the bat down until it was brushing his calf. “Well, feel free to arrive at the point whenever you like.”

“Fine,” she said. “You and I need to be friends.”

Sirius _did_ laugh this time, tossing his head back, the bat clattering against his leg. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes, I am,” she said, and tilted her chin up. “I’ve been in the middle of two warring mates before – James can tell you, because he was one of them – and it was really fucking stressful, and shitty, and just the worst, and it won’t do James any good to be in the same situation, so you and I can’t do the same thing. Otherwise it’ll be him who gets hurt, not either of us.”

He didn’t know if he should admire her or knock her out for her audacity. “I didn’t think you cared about his feelings much.”

“Well, I do," she said impatiently. "And I don’t really care if you don’t believe that now. You’ll realise the truth for yourself eventually.”

“And until I do, what? I have to pretend to like you so James can feel better about being your friend?”

"No," she replied. "I want you to _actually_ like me. I don't want James to exist in a bullshit bubble with the two of us backbiting whenever he's not in the room. I've got a second chance to be his friend again, and sorry to disappoint, but I’m not going to fuck it up, so you and I need to be mates."

"Sorry to burst your bullshit bubble, but nobody has ever been able to make me do something I didn't want to do."

“Maybe nobody else tried hard enough."

"And you're going to succeed by distracting me with free food, are you?"

"Why not?" she said. "It works with most dogs."

She _really_ needed to stop making him want to laugh.

* * *

After they ate, Sirius began to complain of a headache and took himself to his bedroom. James didn't know if this was the truth, or if his mate was trying to make amends for his earlier surliness. It was hard to be rude to a person right after they bought you a full English breakfast, especially once you scarfed it with the enthusiasm of a ravenous dog, which put Sirius at somewhat of a loss.

His departure left James alone with Lily, who made him a delicious mug of hot chocolate and forced him to relax on the sofa while she cleaned up last night’s mess. He did as he was bidden under threat of bodily harm, turned on the TV and sipped his drink while he watched her whizz around the room, picking up glasses and wiping surfaces down with a damp cloth and a spray bottle.

He didn’t ask her how she’d found cleaning supplies in his chaotic jumble of a flat; this kind of effortless competence was just Lily being Lily.

After vacuuming the living room, she disappeared into the kitchen for a while, so James watched a cookery programme until he dozed off. He was tucked beneath a blanket when he woke up, and his empty mug was gone. As for Lily, she had changed into the clothes she’d worn last night and was curled up on the armchair nearby, watching telly while Algernon snoozed in her lap, being lazily and luxuriously petted.

He blinked at her while his eyes adjusted to the light that streamed through the window behind her head, crowning her in luminescence. It was another bright, cold morning. “I said he’d remember you, didn’t I?”

She turned her gaze from the television. “You did.”

“I was right.”

“You were right.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“You cannot, and nobody will believe you if you tell them.”

He yawned, stretching his legs out, which were cramped from being curled in one position for too long. “How did I end up with a blanket?”

“You were shivering in your sleep,” said Lily, her attention drifting back to the television. “It was dead cute.”

“I’m glad that you enjoy my discomfort.”

“I got you a bloody blanket, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but after how long? There’s nothing to prove that you weren’t sitting back for ages, laughing at me while I caught hypothermia.”

“There _may_ have been a slight delay in attending to your body temperature while I was washing your dishes for you, and I sincerely apologise for that,” she said sweetly, and with a wry smile for him. “Though it would help if you didn’t insist on being topless.”

“Hey, this is for your benefit,” he reminded her, indicating to his torso. Her eyes flicked over his face and returned to the telly – yet another cookery show – but she laughed, a laugh as quiet and imperceptible as a hiccup. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

"I'd love one, thank you," she said, and Algernon swished his tail happily.

He stood up, leaving the blanket on the couch, walked into his kitchen and found it completely transformed. The dishes had been washed, dried and put away, the counters cleaned, floor mopped – even the faucets gleamed – and everything sang with the fresh scent of lemon. When he opened his fridge for milk, he found that the unrecognisable pool of sticky red stuff was gone and the leftovers from breakfast were packed neatly in the plastic police officer lunchbox (ages 5 and up) that Booth had given him for his birthday.

He didn't know if he should feel delighted or ashamed that Lily Evans had settled into taking care of him so quickly, or that she even wanted to take care of him in the first place, so he settled on a mixture of both, and made her the most perfect cup of tea he could possibly manage.

"You took a while," she said to him, when he came back and handed her the tea.

"I had to stir it precisely the right number of times."

"I know that what you just said makes sense to you, somehow," she said, and took the mug from his hands. "So I'm not going to question it. Thank you for making me tea."

"Seriously? You just remodelled my kitchen. You don't need to thank me for a poxy cup of tea."

"It's not my birthday, though."

"It _was_ your birthday in January," he pointed out, and returned to his spot on the sofa. The heating hadn't been turned on since the morning before, and he was cold, so he pulled the blanket over his chest. "The tea is my gift to you, don't get too excited."

"I'll try to quell my hysteria, cheers."

Of course, James's mind immediately began to race, scanning through ideas for a late birthday present he could buy her, something he could casually drop on her desk on a Tuesday morning with an impassive nod, as if it barely mattered that he'd bought it all. He'd shrug off her peals of delight and say that he'd been walking down the street and saw it in a shop window and thought, hey, my completely platonic friend Evans would probably like that, why the hell not?

But what could he get her that would seem both spontaneous and nonchalant? A diamond tiara was the first thing that popped into his head – Lily had loved tiaras when she was a little girl – but that seemed a little obvious. Plus, what shops put diamond tiaras in their windows? Almost none. Lily was a great detective, she would know if James lied about spotting a diamond tiara in Debenhams. She would know that James had never even _been_ to a Debenhams. He clearly needed help.

Lily was sipping her tea, engrossed in some chef who was cooking calf livers with Madeira sauce, so James rooted around the couch for his phone – he turned out to be sitting on it – and sent a text message to Remus.

_moony where do i find a diamond tiara it's urgent thanks_

Remus was always a fast and reliable responder to text messages, and he didn't disappoint this time around. James only needed to stare at his screen for a minute or two before his friend read his message and replied to it.

_Are you our current monarch, HRH Elizabeth II?_

Perplexed, James typed out _no_ and hit send. Remus responded within a matter of seconds.

_Then it's not urgent. Don't buy Lily a diamond tiara._

_how do you know it's for lily_

_I don't, I'm sorry. I should have realised that you'd be possessed by an urge to procure one for Sirius. How nice it will look in his raven black hair._

Despite himself, James snorted with laughter at the thought of Sirius skulking about in his leather jacket and a glittery tiara, which attracted Lily's attention.

"You okay?" she asked, regarding him curiously over the top of her mug.

"Yeah," he said. "Remus just sent me a funny text. Private joke. It'd be hard to explain."

"Alright, then. Tell him I said hello," she said, and went back to her calf livers, while James returned to his reconnaissance mission.

_lily is here she says hello_

_Is she? Why don't you ask her if she wants a diamond tiara? She'll say no._

James spent a few minutes trying to figure out what lie would be best to feed Remus, then decided that it was ultimately pointless. Remus was almost as good a detective as Lily, he'd sniff out the truth immediately. He also wasn't Sirius, so he wasn't likely to start prying or questioning James's motives, and he was the only person James knew who gave good advice. Aside from Lily, but she couldn't be relied upon for advice in this situation for obvious reasons.

_so what can i get her instead i missed her birthday so it has to be good_

_What did she get you for your birthday?_

_pirate costume for algernon_

_Well then, don't get her something that would be exponentially more expensive than a cat-sized pirate costume. Diamond tiaras are out. She may like something nice for her new flat._

_what like a chandelier_

_You and Downton Abbey need to be forcibly parted._

"Did you have a nice birthday, then?" said Lily. He jumped slightly, as if she was somehow able to see what he was typing. The livers appeared to have been cooked and sampled, as she was no longer paying attention to the telly, but watching him expectantly.

“I had an excellent birthday,” he said. “Tell me, how’s the flat coming along?”

She seemed surprised by the abrupt change of subject. “What?”

“How’s it coming along?” he asked. This whole subterfuge thing was easy, Lily would never tell. “Do you have everything you need? You know, furniture and things like that? Tablecloths, chandeliers…”

“Chandeliers?”

“Some people are really into chandeliers.”

“You’re not going to buy me a chandelier, are you?” Lily asked. On her lap, Algernon lifted his fluffy ginger head and regarded James with a look of utter contempt.

“No,” he lied. Perhaps Remus was right about period dramas rubbing off on him too much. “I just think they’re cool.”

“Are you sure? I’m really concerned that you might actually buy me one. You’ve got that look in your eye.”

“I just told you that I wasn’t going to.”

“I recall you saying something similar when you took me to that charity gala Winnie’s mum put on at Christmas.“ 

“You knew I was going to rent a car.”

“A car, not the Aston Martin from bloody _Goldfinger_!”

“To cheer you up because you’d had that cold!”

“Oh _no_ , Evans,” Lily dropped her voice to a lower register. “This is definitely _not_ the actual car from the actual movie, I wouldn’t spend _that_ much money to use a car for one night. I’m not _that_ much of a show-off.”

“You love James Bond, and you secretly enjoyed being driven around in that car.”

“Be that as it may,” said Lily. “Don’t get me a chandelier, or I’ll drop it on your head.”

“Is that how you react whenever you get a gift you don’t like?”

“I have a lot of concussed friends,” she quipped. “Hang on a sec.” A buzzing noise had sounded from somewhere beneath Algernon, who leapt onto the arm of the chair. Lily pulled her phone from her pocket, looked at the screen, and a panicked expression crossed her face. “ _Shit_.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to leave,” she said, and started pulling on her shoes, which were on the floor next to her chair. “Now, or I’ll be late, I completely forgot I had plans.”

“Oh.” The smile James was wearing slipped from his face. “Got a hot date, have you?”

“No, Beatrice is coming over, remember? She’s helping me out with the flat.”

“So, you’re not ditching me for some other bloke, then?”

Lily stood up and brushed the cat hair from her jeans. “I’ve been ditching other blokes for _you_ since I developed breasts. I’m hardly going to change that habit now, am I?” Shouldering her handbag, she jerked her head in the direction of the hall. “Come on, be a gentleman and walk me to your front door. I bet even Sirius does that for his female visitors.”

It was still chilly in the room, so James wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and stood up. “Actually, he sleeps in while I make them breakfast.”

He walked her to the door, an action that he must have repeated hundreds of times in the past, one that felt old and familiar, but completely surreal. One week ago, had someone asked James if he ever expected to see Lily Evans again, he would have answered with a resounding no and pretended that he’d grown past missing her. This morning, they had hung out in his living room, into which he had carried her in his own two arms the night before, effectively breaking an agreement he’d made with himself to refrain from touching her in case it ruptured a boundary. Drunk James didn’t care for such agreements with his sober self. Drunk James had only wanted to hold her, and Relatively Sober Lily had allowed it. That was a good development, he thought, or a very scary one.

By rights, Lily should have dashed off as soon as James opened the door for her, but she lingered for a moment, halfway between his hall and the corridor outside.

“Can I ask you something quickly?” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. She was wearing her uncomfortable heels again, but he still had a few inches on her.

“Sure.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Why did you think I had a hot date waiting for me at midday?”

“Er,” he replied. Because he couldn’t understand how Lily didn’t have a queue of sexy men lining up to take her on sexy dates to restaurants with sexy French food and sexy glasses of expensive wine. He hated wine, and it all tasted the same to him anyway. “It could have been a brunch date. Brunch is a thing here now, not just in America.”

“I’ve been back for _six_ days. When would I have found the time to meet someone and arrange a hot brunch date?”

“You could have Tinder. That’s also a thing now.”

She laughed rather desperately. “I’ve never used Tinder. Have you?”

“Er, no,” he said, and shoved a hand through his hair. His blanket billowed behind him like a magician’s cape. “I’m not, y’know, actively looking for anyone.”

“Same. Honestly, I'm not bothered about dating right now.”

“Yeah, who has the time?”

“Right? Nobody tells you when you start this job that you have to bloody _marry_ it.”

“And then if you _do_ meet someone she hates your cat.”

“Who hated your cat?”

“Just some girl I dated for a while last year, but she was – eh. Awful.“

“She does sound awful,” Lily agreed. “Who could hate Algernon?”

“Nobody with sense. But hey!” He leaned towards her and nudged her with his elbow. “At least you’ve got Prewett waiting to take you out.”

She pulled a face. “Or that bloke from the station.”

“What bloke from the station?”

“Nobody you should worry about,” she began, and but caught herself immediately. She blushed profusely. “I mean, not that you _would_.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not – I wasn’t assuming –“

“Seriously, it’s fine, there’s bound to be, like…” He waved his hand. “Residual _stuff_ , I suppose.”

“Yeah, of course,” she eagerly replied, her face burning like a hot teakettle. “I mean, obviously, I’m so swamped that dating isn’t my priority but if I was going to date _anyone_ … you know? But I wouldn’t, so it’s really fine.”

“Yeah, no. Yeah.” He didn’t know, but part of him suspected that she was giving him clearance to ask, which wasn't sufficient encouragement to push the topic, but enough to make blood thunder between his ears while his head short-circuited, frantically searching for anything to say. “But it’s better that we’re friends again.”

Lily blinked, and James’s brain caught up with his mouth. He could have punched himself in the throat.

“Yeah,” she said, and smiled widely. “Agreed.”

“Anyway, have fun fixing up your flat!” he said, an attempt at a smooth transition into a mindset that wasn’t urging him to kiss her. “Remember you owe me a fiver if Booth brings her tarot cards.”

“I’ll let you know – and you have to come and visit once it’s done, okay?”

“As if you could keep me away.”

She opened her mouth as if to retort, no doubt with something witty and brilliant, but changed her mind before a sound left her lips.

Instead, she hugged him, and it was a proper hug at that – one hand sliding beneath the blanket to curl around his waist, her fingernails scraping lightly against his bare skin, the other snaking into his hair to hold him firmly in place – a hug that he could tell had feeling behind it. He let the blanket fall to the floor and hugged her back, tight, so she laid her ear against his chest, just above his heart. If she heard it quicken, and it quickened beyond any doubt, she kindly didn’t call attention to it.

She sighed; they were so close that it reverberated in his chest. “I really missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he murmured into her hair. “Loads.”

She pulled away all too soon, but not before she kissed his cheek – the softest graze of her lips, but it burned on his skin all the same.

“Have a good weekend,” she said, and stroked the spot she’d kissed with her thumb. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“See you Monday,” he repeated, and when she walked away, James was left with a horrible, prickly feeling that he’d just missed an opportunity.

* * *

 _It_   _is May 20 th, 2015, and we’ve skipped ahead a little; that old narrative device. To catch you up, Lily and James solved their first case together – Darius Gibbon was killed by a fellow drug-runner on the orders of a superior – and every other case they’ve been handed since. They work together like a well-oiled machine, instinctive and trusting, and Minerva McGonagall is thus far pleased with the results of her little experiment. Outside of work, they’ve become as close as they ever were, though neither have spoken of their little moment by James Potter’s front door. Beatrice Booth, who thrives on drama, has her own ideas about the two of them, and has no qualms about sharing her opinions._

“Five, six, seven, eight,” Potter was reciting, spinning Lily’s chair around like an overzealous waltzer operator. “Nineeeee, ten!” He grabbed the back of the chair to steady it, and Lily flopped to the side like a dead fish. “You’re up!”

“I feel sick,” Lily whined, and gripped the armrests. “Gimme a minute.”

“Bullshit, you’re just afraid of losing.”

Beatrice, who had paused in filing her nails to witness this sorry spectacle, gave an audible sigh that they both ignored. Since Lily had joined their team, Beatrice’s desk had become a personal cinema, and she an audience member to the most dragged-out, predictable, and hopelessly vanilla love story of all time. Potter and Lily were like a terrible teen drama that refused to go away after two seasons; truly awful, but impossible to stop watching.

Beatrice had even told her friends and family about them; her younger sister texted for regular updates.

“I’m not afraid!” cried Lily in affront. “But I’m not a fucking ice dancer, am I?”

“Neither am I, and the whole point is to do it dizzy.”

“ _You_ weren’t as dizzy as I am, Mr. I’m Fucking Fantastic at Everything,” Lily haughtily replied. She rose from her seat with dignity, or tried to, and stumbled sideways immediately. Potter caught her by the arm, laughing, and she wrenched it out of his grip. “Give me the gun.”

Lily seemed to possess an endless supply of presents with Potter’s name on them, and this week’s gift was a small Nerf gun, roughly larger than a pistol. They were between cases, and McGonagall was at a conference for the week, so they’d stuck a target to the far wall of the bullpen and were making ridiculous wagers over who could do better. Originally, they’d been trying to hit the other people in the room, but stopped when James knocked a piece of toast right out of Sirius’s hand and he got mad, snatched up his Dostoyevsky and marched to the toilet. He hadn’t come back since.

Beatrice, of course, had questioned Lily over her strange habit of plying Potter with gifts, but Lily insisted that she just loved buying things for her friends. The next day, she’d presented Beatrice with a foot spa. Prying always paid off.

“You won’t beat him,” she said to Lily.

Lily had taken aim at the target, but was swaying on her feet. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Darling, you’re superior to him in every other way—“

“Wow, thanks,” said Potter.

“But he’s better at this,” Beatrice finished, just as Lily fired the gun. It missed the target by a couple of inches; James was hitting it dead centre even after Lily spun him around twenty times. “Told you.”

“I hate you, Potter,” said Lily, and grabbed hold of him to steady herself. He readily acquiesced to her unspoken request, steered her back into her chair and took the gun back.

“Whatever,” he said, once she’d sat down. “You’re buying me dinner.”

“Then I hope you like Whopper meals.”

“No, we agreed. Three courses, at someplace that has a person to show you to your table.”

“But you’re richer than me,” Lily argued. “And I bought you the gun!”

“Calm down, ladies, you’re both pretty,” Beatrice interjected as she rose from her seat and walked towards them both. Her favourite object of attention, Remus, was on vacation with his parents for the week, and she was suffering for lack of anyone handsome to fantasise about. “And why aren’t I being brought out to dinner?”

“We go out for dinner once a week,” Lily pointed out. “You’re basically my best friend.”

“Hey!”

“Aside from you, James.”

Looking vindicated, James leaned backwards in his chair and fired the gun over his shoulder. It bounced off the target’s centre circle and landed on Pettigrew’s desk. Peter would have quite a collection of foam pellets to clean up when he returned from his callout.

“You’re such an exhibitionist,” said Lily darkly.

“Don’t you have any actual work to do, Potter?” Beatrice chimed in, and perched on the edge of Lily’s desk. The two women shared a smile. While the build-up to Lily and Potter’s inevitable copulation was proving lengthy and frustrating, Beatrice had grown to adore her newest friend with a wholehearted passion. “Who cares if you can fire a plastic gun when you can’t spell the word ‘stipulation’?

“That was a typo. Stop giving me shit and let Lily have some, for once.”

“Lily is perfect.”

“She’s right, I am.”

“Hair,” Beatrice instructed, and Lily spun her chair around to oblige her. Lily’s thick, wavy hair was a natural wonder; though she kept it tied up during work hours, it reached the small of her back when she wore it down and comprised of the most gorgeous colours, from deepest ruby to molten gold. Beatrice, who counted hairstyling as one of her many talents, found deep enjoyment in brushing it, braiding it and trying out new styles.

She pulled Lily’s hair out of its ponytail – it _cascaded_ , it was so unfair – and shook it out with her fingers. “Potter, I’ve got a brush and some hairpins in my second drawer, go get them for me.”

“ _Don’t you have any actual work to do_?” said Potter, in a screechy imitation of her voice, but he got up and fetched them anyway.

“Hair maintenance _is_ work. Ta, love,” she said to Potter, when he returned to the desk and handed her what she needed. “I’m so jealous of your natural wave, honestly.”

“I’m so jealous of _your_ hair,” said Lily warmly. “Do you know how hard it is to straighten mine? Yours is so sleek and pretty.”

“You two have this conversation at least twice a week, you know.”

“He’s upset because we never compliment his hair,” said Lily, with a laugh. “He puts so much effort into making it look effortlessly tousled.”

“If you mean he sticks a fork in his toaster every morning, I’d hardly call that effort.”

“I have no qualms about shooting either of you.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes, and gathered a section of hair from beside Lily’s temple. She was in the mood for bridal-style braids today. “This is what he does with your gestures of love, Lil. I told you, he’s a waste of your money. You should be buying _me_ presents.”

“You’re right, he’s so ungrateful.”

“You know you’re basically Booth’s doll, don’t you?”

Lily shrugged. “So?”

“Yeah, so?” Beatrice echoed. “I spent a decade surrounded by dirty boys in this fucking office, pardon me if I enjoy having another beautiful woman around to do girly things with.”

“Beatrice bought me that purple dress I wore to the cinema last week,” said Lily. “ _You_ said that dress was pretty.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Potter countered. “You look pretty in everything.”

“How come you never tell me that I look pretty?” Beatrice pointed the hairbrush at Potter. “Haven’t we been mates for long enough to warrant a compliment or two?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, _very_ nice.”

“Don’t be mean to Beatrice,” said Lily coolly. “At least _she_ doesn’t look like Aladdin with glasses.”

“Hah!” Beatrice nearly choked on a gob of her own saliva, which was at least preferable to spitting in Lily’s hair. “He fucking does!” 

“He’s the spitting image of him,” Lily put in. “He always has been.” 

“That’s your opinion,” said James. “I don’t think I look—“ 

“Oh, yes you fucking  _do_ , sunshine,” said Beatrice, momentarily forgetting her endeavours in hairdressing. “I can’t believe I never noticed before.” 

“His nickname at school was Prince Ali.” 

“Prince Ali!” She let out another throaty laugh. “Prince Ali, the Head Boy! How many other secrets are you keeping, Potter? Do you have a magic carpet?” 

“Are you as strong as ten regular men?” said Lily, twisting her chair from side to side. “Or five  _irregular_  men?” 

“How many peacocks are you packing?” 

“Do you have ninety-five white Persian monkeys?” 

“Oh, he’s got the monkeys.” 

“Let’s see the monkeys.” 

“I bet he doesn’t even have nipples.” Beatrice pointed the hairbrush at Potter, who was watching them both with great amusement. “Do you have nipples, Potter? Come on, get your top off, you dirty street rat.” 

“That’s a pretty extreme way to get me to strip,” said Potter, and looked at Lily. “Are you okay with this kind of sexual harassment?” 

Lily shrugged, and looked over her shoulder at Beatrice. “He does have nipples, though.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because we grew up together.” 

“Oh, right. Not because you’re having a secret affair, then?” 

Lily snorted. “As if James and I could have a secret affair.” 

“Why couldn’t you?” 

“Because of James.” Lily jerked her head in Potter’s direction. “You explain.” 

“I can’t keep a secret,” he dutifully supplied. “I’d probably get excited about having a secret affair and tell everyone about it. You should really know this about me." 

This, unfortunately, was far too accurate for Beatrice to dismiss, because it tallied with her own thoughts on the matter. The reason she knew that Lily and James hadn't done the nasty together was, predominantly, because James hadn't marched into the office with a ticker tape parade and a fully costumed town crier in tow.  

Besides, James had been asking Remus for Lily-specific advice for weeks, and so far hadn't made any indication that he no longer needed assistance in that area. Neither Remus or James knew that Beatrice knew this, but she'd sat at James's computer one day while he was in the toilet – he was always forgetting to lock it – and had a good look at his conversation history. She suspected that Remus was  _not_  responsible for the elaborate water wall that James had brought as a gift to Lily's impromptu housewarming party, though it did look pretty snazzy in her living room. 

"Hang on." Beatrice brought the hairbrush down like a gavel, pausing in mid-air. "Have you two _discussed_ having a secret affair and decided against it because Potter can't hold his piss? Or am I missing something?" 

"Course not," said Lily serenely. "That would be weird. It's just common sense." 

"Yeah," Potter agreed. "That's just how I'd act in that situation. Ask – oi, mate," he called to Sirius, who had finally returned to his long trip to the bathroom. "Are Lily and I having a secret affair?" 

"No," said Sirius immediately. 

"How'd you know that?" 

"Because you'd wet yourself and tell everyone." 

"I don't see why my bladder needed to get involved in this."

Sirius and Potter started to bicker about their bodily functions, while Beatrice sighed and resumed her work on her friend’s hair.

It was a brand new phenomenon for her: two people who openly fancied one another but adamantly refused to do anything about it, and denied their feelings to their nearest and dearest. After close to a decade working in a clinically gossip-free office environment, watching Potter – who she did love like a brother – amble aimlessly through half-hearted relationships with no hint of a destination in sight, and with her own interest in Remus being so blatantly one-sided, she had thrown a significant amount of energy into these two. She was hungry for scandal and they were refusing to throw her a morsel. It simply wouldn't do. 

She could have tugged sharply on Lily’s hair to relieve her annoyance, but she would never do such a thing to something so beautiful.

* * *

Lily had realised, at some point over the last two months, that she may have caught feelings. It was fine. Most people caught feelings at some point. It was like the flu; you had to have the flu on at least one occasion during a lifetime. The flu came, the flu went, and you moved on with your life. Such was existence. It was nothing to worry about.  

Except one thing – Lily’s feelings hadn’t been caught, but were the product of a lifelong condition. She had simplysuffered a relapse into infatuation, and had little hope for an immediate cure.

But James had said it was better that they were friends, and that was that, and here Lily was, in a sorry state of affairs that she completely deserved. Those words liked to bounce around in her head, a constant companion to her selfish thoughts and urges, and a reminder that she'd already blown her chances. But she was fine, really. She slept through the night and never struggled to get out of bed in the morning, her appetite didn't suffer, and she had James back in some capacity, which was loads better than none at all. 

Slughorn and Peter came back from their callout that afternoon, which sent Beatrice back to her desk and James's Nerf gun into his desk drawer – McGonagall had imposed new measures on Slughorn, and he was trying so hard to keep order that nobody had the heart to let him down. Thus, the day became dull and prosy, and after an hour of reviewing files and waiting for the criminal underbelly of London to give them something to do, Lily was bored out of her mind. 

She decided to bother James, who was pretending to look over some notes in preparation for a court case, but actually reading a graphic novel. She opened up her IM software and typed out a message. 

 _LE: Oi, Ali_ _Ababwa_ _._  

As if he'd sensed her intention, James looked at his own screen just as Lily hit enter, grinned at her message, and started typing. 

 _JP_ _: hello_ _beautiful_  

 _LE: What are you up to?_  

 _JP: bored_    
_JP: your hair is pretty_  

And then there was this. The compliments. The flirting. The fact that James always meant what he said and had no problem saying it, and that most of the things he said made her heart flip over. She didn't know if that made things worse or better. Sometimes, she strongly considered asking him to stop, but she could never bring herself to do it. Then he'd stop, and that would be a catastrophe.

 _LE:_ _Thanks! So is yours._    
_LE: So I owe you a dinner._  

 _JP: y_ _es you do!_  

 _LE: Oh, so you can punctuate when it suits you._  

 _JP:_ _i_ _am a busy man and i don't have time for punctuation_

_LE: Or capital letters?_

_JP: OR THOSE_

_LE: What can I offer you to get you to type properly for the rest of this conversation?  
_

_JP: your quavers_

"Done," she said, and tossed her unopened packet of crisps at James, who caught them in one hand, grinning. She noticed Beatrice staring at them from behind her monitor with an eyebrow raised, and realised that breaking the silence to throw crisps at him must have looked really odd when there was no context. She waved, and returned to her keyboard. Beatrice would probably hack their conversation later, anyway. She could find out what was up on her own.

 _LE: Where do you want to go_ _?_  

 _JP: When?_  

_LE: Whenever you like. Tonight? We can ask Sirius to come if he likes._

_JP: Nah. He came last time. Let's just you and me go tonight._

_LE: Alright. TGI Fridays?_

_JP: Yeah, I'll pay._

_LE: No! The deal was for me to pay!_

_JP: The deal was for me to do the arrest report last week and you did it._

_LE: The deal was for me to stay in London and I moved to Cambridge._

James gave a loud bark of a laugh and started to type furiously. Again, Beatrice snapped to attention like an anxious cat, and again, Lily waved her away. 

_JP: You're the only person I know who can use that to win a bloody argument._

_LE: Did it work?_  

 _JP: No. I'll go halves with you though. I want a steak and I'm not mak_ _ing you pay for that._  

 _LE: Alright. Will I book it for 7pm?_  

 _JP: Sounds good._    
_JP: Stay over at_ _mine after? We can watch Die Hard with Sirius, since you're so desperate to see him._

_LE: I'll need to get my stuff from home first, but alright. I'll book TGIs for 7:30._

_JP: Cool. I'll boot Algernon off your side of the bed._

"What are you two scheming over there?" said Beatrice, finally at the end of her curiosity tether.

"Just plotting our secret affair," said James. He tore open his hard-won crisps and popped one in his mouth, but not before he winked at Lily, which sent her stomach into an out-and-out spasm.

But she was fine. Really.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's glossary:
> 
> Eurovision: For those who aren’t in the know, Eurovision is a long-running international song competition in which members of the European Broadcasting Union (which includes countries outside of Europe) compete. It’s famous for being cheesy and colourful, and there’s usually at least one hilarious, gimmicky act per year. Ireland, my home country, used to win it all the time, but they’re terrible now.
> 
> Also, on this side of the pond, chips are fries, not potato chips.
> 
> Today's chapter is a wee bit shorter than the last couple, but this is because chapter seven is VERY long, and eventful, and I moved some of the action into that chapter because it fit better. In any case, I hope you all enjoy it!

**Chapter Six**   

 _It is May 23rd, 2015, and Beatrice Booth is throwing an intimate, informal gathering of workmates for the most important night of the year. The object of her desires, Remus Lupin, is still on holiday and unable to attend. Worse still, the owners of her selected venue aren’t aware that she’s throwing a gathering in their home, but this is merely a small, easily-circumvented obstacle. She remains heavily invested in a certain burgeoning office romance, but has no immediate plans to meddle in the affairs of her two infatuated friends._    

Beatrice threw a handful of confetti in Sirius Black’s face as soon as he opened his front door.    

“Surprise!” she cried, and tossed another handful into the air above their heads. “Happy Eurovision!”    

The confetti had really been meant for Potter, who would have appreciated it, but Beatrice wasn’t prepared to waste a flashy entrance because the wrong person answered the door. Sirius, surrounded by a colourful flurry that settled on his shoulders and caught in his sleek, black hair, responded blankly, a slight downturn of his lips and little else.   

“I regret buzzing you in,” he said.   

She rolled her eyes, and brushed stray confetti from her palms. “You don’t mean that, sweetheart.”   

“What are you doing here?”   

“Setting up for the Eurovision party.”   

“What Eurovision party?”   

“The one I’m throwing tonight,” she said, and stooped to pick up the carrier bags she had set on the floor. “And you’re welcome.”   

Predictably, Sirius didn’t step aside to let her pass. For as long as she had known him, he had hated things like happiness and music, or enjoying himself in an emotionally healthy way, and the intricate delights of Europe’s greatest party night were lost on him. She lifted her bags up and down as if they were dumbbells. “These bags are so heavy.”   

“I don’t care. Piss off home with your heavy bags.”    

“I can’t piss off home because I’ve invited everyone  _here_ ,” she calmly explained. “And they’re already on their way.”    

“James and I are going out in a minute,” Sirius countered, and with a malevolent smile. “Sorry.”    

“One, you’re not wearing shoes. Two, you’re holding a book. Three, you’re lying.”   

Sirius simply tossed the book away. “Not right this minute, but within the next ten.”   

She laid the carrier bags back down on the floor, but gently, so as not to shatter the booze bottles, particularly her Rioja. Straightening up, she laid a hand on her hip. She'd had a terrible date the night before and a harrowing phone conversation with her mother that morning, during which she'd been thoroughly berated for failing to start a family at the advanced age of twenty-eight. She needed cheering up. She wanted to drink, and drink with company. She had not travelled all the way to Camden on the tube wearing shiny red lamé shorts and her Spanish football jersey to be turned away at the door.     

“Potter!” she bellowed.    

Sirius glared, but the battle was won, and Potter came skidding to the door in his underpants and a t-shirt. A half-eaten pork sausage was speared on a fork in one of his hands.   

“Alright, mate?” he said, when he saw her, unashamed to have been caught eating processed meat in his boxers. “What brings you here?”   

“Got any plans for tonight?”   

“No.”   

“Then get dressed,” she instructed. “We’re throwing a Eurovision party.”    

"Wicked!" He immediately shoved Sirius. "Now you  _have_  to let me watch it! Get out of her way, would you?"   

"I despise you both," said Sirius, and stalked away to retrieve his book from the floor.   

Beatrice breezed through the door with her carrier bags, kicking it shut behind her, and tossed him a smirk for good measure. She set the bags on their hall table and did a little twirl. "Like my costume?"   

"Spain don't stand a chance," said James derisively. He and Beatrice were avid Eurovision fans both, and had been following the qualifiers closely. "Middle of the table, easy. Sweden all the way."   

"Perhaps, but I have to represent my people." She inclined her head towards the bags. "I brought some accessories for the two of you, take a look. Also, Lockhart is coming. Don't ask me how he found out about it, or how he knows your address."   

Sirius, who had picked up his book, swore loudly and retreated into his bedroom, but James shrugged, set his sausage down and started to rife through the bags.   

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Where'd you get a Swedish flag?"   

“From that Scandinavian place near the Langham.”    

“Excellent. This is  _mine_ ,” he said, and tucked the flag beneath his arm. He resumed his search. “Is Lily coming?”    

“She and Peter are on the tube now. She’s dressed as Ireland, even though I told her they didn’t qualify.”   

“Makes sense,” he absently replied, pulling out a packet of lingonberries and examining them closely. “Her mum was Irish.”   

“And I’m sure you think she looks  _ravishing_  in emerald green.”   

He looked up from the berries. “What?”   

“Since, you know, you’re in love with her,” she innocently finished.   

James picked up his sausage and took a generous bite. He chewed it, swallowed, and shrugged impassively. “So what if I am? You’re not going to tell her.”   

“You’re really not going to deny it?”   

“What’s the point if you already know?”   

She mirrored his shrug. “I hoped you’d make it a bit harder for me.”   

“I hoped you'd make it a bit harder for me," he repeated, and grinned widely. "Title of your sex tape!”   

"What’s yours called?  _Just me and my hand tonight_?"   

"Nah," he said, as the phone on the wall buzzed. He tossed the lingonberries at her and went to answer it. "It's more like thirty minutes of really animalistic weeping." He picked up the phone and balanced it on his shoulder. "Hello?"   

Beatrice caught the berries in her outstretched hands. She couldn't fully make out the voice on the other end, but by the way James lit up, it could only be one person.    

"Hey!" he said, and bounced on the balls of his feet. Beatrice mimed kissing her own hand and he gave her the finger. “Absolutely, come on up!”   

The voice on the other end – Lily's voice – said something and James laughed, then hung up, pressing the button to allow her in. He turned to Beatrice, who regarded him with a raised eyebrow.   

"You won't tell her, will you?" he said, suddenly serious. “Don’t tell her.”   

“Tell her what?” she said. “That you’re in love with her?”   

“That I – yeah.”   

“Honestly, Potter, I think she feels the same—“   

“Could you just promise?” he interrupted impatiently. “Please?”   

She sighed. He was twirling the fork between his fingers and seemed suddenly rather sad and desperate looking, like a lost puppy, and it was hard to mock a lost puppy.   

"I'll promise," she said. "If you put some trousers on."   

"On it," he agreed, and sprinted off. "Let her in when she knocks!"   

And so, Beatrice decided, it would fall to her to meddle. 

* * *

 _It is still May 23rd, 2015, and Beatrice Booth’s party is still in full swing. The first thirteen acts of the song contest have performed, and James is experiencing quite the lull, as all his favourites have performed already, and he has nothing to do until the voting starts, when he will inevitably run up his phone bill single-handedly guaranteeing victory to the Swedish entry. He’s spent the evening drinking whatever his mates have seen fit to hand him, and trying his hardest not to pay so much attention to Lily that it draws comment from Booth. It’s a difficult task to accomplish._  

Peter was a betrayer.    

Well, perhaps 'betrayer' was too strong a term, but James wasn't happy about his decision to bring his unhinged girlfriend to Booth's party, and nor was anyone else present. Except, perhaps, for Lockhart, but Lockhart's attention was always chiefly occupied by Lockhart himself, and he hadn't much time for anything else. He and Peter had both come dressed as France – something that especially irritated James, who had held a spite against the country since the time he visited the Notre Dame cathedral and discovered that it didn’t house a hunchback – and the smell had been unbearable until Lily, at her authoritative best, confiscated their garlic necklaces and threw them in the bin. They had surrendered their garlands with little fuss, as Lily was both firm and kind, so it was impossible to feel as if you were being truly scolded when she was cross with you. Everyone on the team liked Lily, even Sirius, who was fonder of her than he’d ever let on. James liked her best of all. 

She had recently taken to calling him her best friend again; he was unmistakeably, senselessly mad about her. _Again_. That was a particularly painful imbalance to live with on a daily basis. 

“What’s the deal with Helena?” she whispered in his ear all of a sudden, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. While he lounged in his recliner, she was perched on the arm with her long, bare legs slung over his lap. She looked beautiful in a floaty, emerald green top and denim shorts, with her hair loose and glittering shamrocks dangling from her ears. 

“What?” he whispered back. 

“She was so nice to me on the train here,” Lily explained, her voice low in his ear, hidden from general notice by the sound of Belgium’s rather catchy entry. “Really, super nice, but then as soon as we arrived she turned, well…” 

“Nasty?” 

“Yeah.” 

From the other side of the room, Beatrice Booth threw him a knowing look from her armchair, which she’d been doing all night, evidently for her own amusement. It made him a little nervous, Booth possessing the knowledge that she did, though he could logically surmise that his feelings for Lily were obvious to all but Lily herself. They were certainly obvious to Helena Hodge, who had turned on his beloved like a rabid dog after what Peter reported was an initially positive meeting. 

He stole a quick glance at Helena. She was sitting between Lockhart and Peter on the couch – three blondes lined neatly in a row – with her arms folded, staring at Lily with undisguised resentment. 

“I’ll tell you in the kitchen.” He ran his hand up and down one of her legs, because the rules on physical contact between them were muddied waters these days, and Lily seemed to like it when he was tactile with her. “Come on.”

Wordlessly, she unfurled and stood up, slipping her hand into his to haul him to his feet. They picked their way around Sirius, who was sprawled out on the floor, and had become deeply invested in the contest, loudly declaring his opinions on all of the acts with utmost confidence. 

“Where are you two going?” he said, with raised brows. “Off for a shag, finally?”    

“Yes, Sirius, I’m going to bang James in your kitchen, with the door wide open,” said Lily.    

“Clean the place up when you’re done,” Sirius replied. “I could do without my best mate’s man yogurt on my breakfast tomorrow morning.” 

There was a bowl of M&Ms balanced precariously atop their non-functional, entirely decorative fireplace, and Lily picked one out and fired it at Sirius. He caught it in his mouth and turned his attention back to the television, grinning at his own cleverness. 

In the kitchen, James shut the door behind them and Lily hopped up onto the counter, swinging her legs. 

“So, what’s the gossip with Helena?” she said, eyes bright. “Tell me, tell me.” 

“Right. Well.” He leaned against the fridge, across from her, and smoothed his palms against his thighs. “This is going to make me sound so full of myself—“ 

“Because you’re normally so modest?” 

“—but Helena, erm, she fancies me.” 

“What?” Lily laughed. “You’re not serious!” 

“It can’t be that hard to believe that someone fancies me.” 

“Of course not, you idiot,” she said, and laughed again. She jabbed at her own chest. “You think  _I’d_  find that hard to believe?” 

“Oh, wouldn’t you?” 

She sent him a flat look.    

"You can't fault me for digging for a compliment," he pointed out, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Have I mentioned that you’re stunning?"    

She blushed. "I am not."    

"You are, and I'm dead handsome."    

"You  _are_  dead handsome," she agreed, with a smile. "What I meant is that Helena is Peter’s girlfriend. Why would she fancy one of his mates?"    

"Perhaps you should ask her that, because she does."    

"How do you know this? Has she told you?" 

“Not, like, directly, but it’s pretty obvious. She’s made a lot of comments before that are, erm, inappropriate, and she’s always trying to touch me, and she—“ 

The kitchen door burst open, and in barged Helena, carrying an armful of empty glasses and looking angry. 

“Sorry if I’m interrupting you two!” she called out. “I’m just bringing in these dirty dishes!” 

"And that," James finished lamely. 

Lily pressed her lips together and turned her head away, shoulders shaking, while Helena walked over to the sink and dumped the glasses with unceremonious force – one of them cracked on impact. She swung her body to face them both, eyeing them suspiciously. It wasn’t that Helena was bad looking, exactly, but she bullied Peter mercilessly, had a permanently crazed look in her eyes, and kept her fingernails sharpened to the point of talons. James was mildly frightened of her.  

“It’s been a while,” she said to him, and bumped her hip against the sink. 

“Yup,” said James, then realised that she was expecting a greeting of some kind. “Hullo, Helena.” 

“So,” she said, her lips pursed in a glossy pout. “You two are close, then?” 

He and Lily looked at each other. Her face was pink from stifled laughter, but she nodded. 

“Yup,” James repeated. 

“Pretty close,” Lily chimed in. 

“Glenn Close.” 

“ _Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_.” 

“ _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_ ,” James continued. “Is that an apt description of our friendship?” 

“Close enough,” said Lily, smirking at him. 

“And you’ve got private jokes,” said Helena, with a plastic smile. “That’s so cute.” 

“Thanks,” said Lily. “We think so.” 

“Sirius mentioned that you two, like, share a bed?” 

Again, he and Lily looked at each other, and he could glean from the look in her eyes that some sort of mischief was brewing in that brain of hers. 

“We do, on occasion,” said Lily airily. 

“But you’re not together?” 

“James has nightmares about being stalked – I can’t imagine why,” Lily explained. “It helps if I’m there when he wakes up.” 

“You’re such a _good_ friend, Evans,” he said, and reached out to her. Lily took his hand immediately in both of her own. 

“No,” she said. “You are.” 

“No, you hang up.” 

“No,  _you_!” 

“So what were you two doing in here all by yourselves?” Helena baldly interrupted, and Lily dropped James’s hand to take her phone out of her pocket. 

“Er,” he replied. “Talking?” 

“About what?” 

“Current events,” he said, and Lily snorted. “So, how are things with you and Peter? Good, I hope?” 

Helena narrowed her eyes at Lily. “We’re making do. No sign of a ring yet, can you believe? Two years together and I’ve had no ring, it’s unbearable, I’ve got all these wedding magazines just sitting—“  

She carried on talking about her intense desire to get married – to just about anyone, it seemed to James – and he heard his phone ping in his pocket. Lily gave him a subtle nod, so he fished it out to read whatever she’d sent him.

 _I reckon we could get her to leave_ _in outrage_ _if I snogged the face off you right in front of her. Y/N??_   

He almost yelped like a cocker spaniel, but managed to remain outwardly composed as he quickly typed a response. 

 _are you serious_  

“And ideally, I’d like to do it in the summer, get the weather for it, you know?” Helena was drawling. “But I’ll never get  _any_ wedding at all if Pete never—“ 

His phone pinged again.  

_Yeah, why not?_

His brain exploded. 

Remus. He needed Remus. Remus would know what to do. Unfortunately, Remus was away in the Lake District with his selfish parents, neither of whom were remotely concerned about the damage their son’s absence was doing to James at that very moment because Lily was offering to kiss him, to snog the face off him, in her own words, and he couldn’t just leave her hanging while he texted Remus and asked him how he was meant to respond.

He looked up from his phone; she was watching him expectantly. Waiting for him to decide if he was willing to bloody well snog her, which of course, he was more than willing to do. Kissing her was all he’d wanted to do since the moment she returned to London, and it was something he wanted with more fervency recently, because one kiss might have been all he needed to make her feel what he was feeling – just like before – and he’d be a blind, stupid fool to turn her down.

That, he decided, settled everything.

_go on then_

Lily smiled at her phone, stashed it in her pocket and slid neatly off the counter’s edge. Helena was still droning on but it didn’t matter, and a frisson of excitement shot through his entire body when Lily’s bare feet touched the floor. She was going to do it, Helena be damned, and then she’d realise that she didn’t want to stop, and they’d— 

Beatrice Booth walked into the kitchen, and ruined everything. 

“ _Lillllllllyyyyy_ ,” she whined, and raced towards the three of them with her arms outstretched. “I’m so blue, can you pet me a little?”  

“Er, of course,” said Lily, though her unruffled face betrayed not a thing. Beatrice threw herself into her waiting arms, and she gently patted her back. “What’s wrong, chick?”  

“I didn’t tell you before, but I had an _awful_ date last night,” said Beatrice. James couldn’t see her face, but he could tell that she was pouting.  

“With that guy from the gym?” said Lily.  

“Yeah.” She pulled away. “I never should have split up with Karl.”  

Karl had been Booth’s on-again, off-again, and rather weird boyfriend for close to five years, but he was currently travelling through the Himalayas and complaining extensively about it on social media, while she had elected to stay in London. Their breakup had been entirely dramatic on Booth’s end, but entirely without fanfare on Karl’s, and everyone understood that they’d get back together just as soon as he set foot on British soil, even Beatrice, though she liked to pretend she didn’t.  

"You've seemed fine all evening," said Lily, as she tucked a lock of hair behind Beatrice's ear. "What's brought this on?"  

"One of the Austrian singers looked like Gym Boy," she explained. "Listen, can we do drinks on Tuesday after work? Just us girls?"  

"I can't," said Helena, quite unnecessarily. "I'm busy."  

"Good," Beatrice spat. "I didn't fucking ask you, did I?" 

With a noise of disgust, Helena turned on her heel and stalked off, and Beatrice fingered a strand of Lily's hair with a sigh. 

"I can’t stand her," she said. “You’re so pretty, Lil.” 

"So are you," said Lily, and Beatrice pulled her into another hug. James locked eyes with her. She seemed utterly bewildered, and shook her head slightly at him.

“You’re my favourite.”

“You’re mine.”

Beatrice pulled back from the hug. “You’ll come on Tuesday?”

"Yeah, sure." 

"Good!" She spun to face James and curled her arm around Lily’s waist. "We can talk about boys. We   _never_  talk about boys, you know," she said to him. "Always passing the  béchamel  test, this one."  

"Bechdel test," said James automatically. 

"Shut up, mansplainer." 

Lily tried valiantly not to laugh. "We never talk about boys because there  _are_  no boys. It's not like I've sworn off men, or anything." 

"Every time we're out together, and a bloke asks for your number, you say no," said Beatrice. "Every. Single. Time. Even when they’re super sexy. Remember that bloke from the telly?”

“You were asked out by a bloke from the telly?” said James, while something hot and sick swooped low in his stomach.

“Some idiot from a reality show,” said Lily, with an edge in her voice. “As if I’d ever—“  

“Who are you saving yourself for?” said Beatrice, cutting across her. “That's what I want to know. Who is she saving herself for?" she repeated, this time to James. “I bet it’s fucking  _you_ , isn’t it?” 

“Don’t be daft, Booth,” said James. Sober Beatrice lording her knowledge over him was fine, but if drunk Beatrice decided to tell Lily how he felt about her, he might actually die. 

“I think you’re a little too drunk, chick,” said Lily. “Let’s go back to the living room. Who’s performing next?” 

“You told  _me_ ,” said Beatrice, and pointed right in Lily’s face. “That you’d thought about fucking him.”

That blanketed the room in a thick, deadly silence for a couple of seconds, then Lily snapped out of her stunned reverie and grabbed Beatrice by the upper arm. The taller girl squealed in surprise. Or pain. James couldn’t be sure of anything, other than the fact that his heart had suffered a momentary halt. He had probably lost a couple of years from his lifespan.

“She means when we were teenagers,” Lily explained, and rolled her eyes. “He already knew that, Bee. Nice try, though.”

“She’s got a photo of the two of you in her bedroom,” Beatrice doughtily continued, and Lily yanked her off balance, heaving her in the direction of the living room. She allowed herself to be dragged, but winked at James, and made the ‘ok’ symbol with her thumb and forefinger. “She hides it in a drawer when you come over!”

“She’s talking nonsense. I’m going to tell Sirius that you had a sex dream about him.”

Beatrice gasped. “I told you that in confidence!” 

“Serves you bloody right, doesn’t it!” Lily replied. “Oi, Sirius, guess what Bee told me about you?”

They disappeared into the living room, which left James alone, feeling confused, frustrated, and very much inclined to wring Beatrice Booth’s neck.

* * *

 _It is May 26_ _th_ _, 2015,_ _and after a particularly long and busy day of witness statements, paperwork and surveillance tapes, Lily Evans is entering her twenty-fourth hour on an empty stomach, and about to go for drinks with Beatrice Booth. It’s not the wisest course of action on a work night, but Beatrice is in desperate need of some serious girl time, and Lily is too nice to renege on a promise to a friend. She arrives at a niche bar in Camden, quite close to where James Potter lives – not that that’s in any way consequential – and hopes that her friend chose a place that sells_ _chicken wings._  

Lily’s first feeling upon entering the bar was dismay, when she realised that this establishment sold booze, and only booze. Her next feeling was confusion, because Beatrice was waiting for her at a rickety wooden table that looked rather like an old-fashioned school desk, but she wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her was a man; tall, blonde and attractive, but in an overly polished, son-of-a-baronet sort of way that Lily found particularly unappealing. She hadn’t thought she was late for their girls’ night, but Beatrice must have been waiting for quite a while to have picked up a new suitor in the process.

“Hey,” she said, as she approached the table. “I’m sorry if I’m late, I was a bit snowed under with work.” 

“Oh, no problem!” said Beatrice cheerfully, and waved her tardiness away. “As I was just telling Bryce, I know what it’s like for you detective types, always so busy and important!” She stood up and placed a hand on the small of Lily’s back. “Bryce, this is Lily Evans. Lily, this is Bryce Cavendish Cadogan.” 

“It’s a pleasure,” said Bryce, and also rose from his chair. He held out his hand to Lily, and out of politeness, she took it. “You’re even more beautiful than Beatrice allowed.” 

“Er,” said Lily. 

“What a charmer, eh?” said Beatrice. “Anyway, better dash, you two enjoy your date!” 

“What?!” said Lily, and caught her by the wrist. “What do you mean, date?” 

“Oh, Lily, don’t act all modest!” Beatrice trilled, and pretended to pat her on the arm, but pinched her instead, hard. She wore a wide, plastered-on smile, but in her eyes there lay a glint of purest evil. “Bryce already knows how excited you are,  _and_  what you said about his picture.” 

“Lucky for me that the lighting in here is so pink already,” Bryce piped up. Lily had never seen a photo of this guy in her life. “It hides my blushes!” 

“So cute,” said Beatrice. “Anyway, got to go  _potter_  about. You two lovebirds have fun!” 

She wrenched her wrist from Lily’s grasp, adjusted her handbag strap and practically danced out the door, while Lily was left standing in a bar that didn’t serve food, confined by her own politeness to a date with a man who possessed two impossibly posh surnames, slicked-back hair and a cravat, and not entirely sure how it had happened. 

“Champagne?” said Bryce, and snapped his fingers to summon a bartender, bringing the total number of embarrassments Lily had suffered in the past five minutes to two. 

“Sure,” she said, and dropped numbly into her seat. “I suddenly feel like I need it.” 

* * *

Bryce enjoyed fox hunting for pleasure, knew the royal family personally and thoroughly enjoyed recounting his thirty-one years of life in monologue form, and it was the worst torture imaginable. 

For forty-five agonising minutes, Lily worked her way through a bottle of champagne – so shattered and empty-bellied that she felt gassy, uncomfortable and unpleasantly drunk by her second glass – and listened to him talk about Will and Kate’s wedding, while her tired, half-sozzled brain tried to work out why Beatrice Booth, her _friend_ , who claimed to _like_ her, had taken it upon herself to set her up on the date of her worst nightmares. It wasn’t until she received a text from James, her own ray of sunshine peeping through a mental hurricane, that she finally got her answer. 

 _booth just texted and said you needed rescuing is something wrong_  

“That  _bitch_ ,” Lily muttered under her breath, while Beatrice’s plan unspooled before her eyes like a yard of ribbon. 

“Pardon?” said Bryce. He had been so engrossed in his own story that he hadn’t even noticed Lily looking at her phone, so it was quite a feat that he’d heard her talk at all. 

“Oh, nothing,” she said, with a faraway laugh. “Could you please excuse me? I need to visit the washroom.” 

“Of course,” said Bryce, and she stood up, wondering if she should curtsy or something, which made her want to laugh, because that was exactly the kind of thing that James would have done. She hurried to the bathroom and locked herself in a neon-lit stall, which didn’t help her much in her inebriated state. Sitting on the toilet, she quickly typed a reply to James. 

 _That COW set me up on a date with this awful toff on purpose and he’s AWFUL and I STILL haven’t eaten and I’ve just had so much champagne to numb the pain but I just feel worse help me x_  

She sat and watched the dots flashing on her screen which indicated that James was replying, tapping her feet impatiently. Her stomach was starting to hurt. 

 _youre_ _on a date???_  

She rolled her eyes, but replied swiftly. 

 _That’s the part you’re focused on?_  

 _its the part you started with_  

 _I don’t WANT to be on this stupid date,_ she typed, her fingers sliding across the screen, making a dozen typos that she painstakingly corrected before hitting send. _I didn’t even know it was happening._ _She just sprung it on me._  

 _hahaha_ _sucks for you_  

 _JAMES ODDJOB POTTER,_ _don’t be mean._ _Now you owe me proper sentences WITH capital letters._  

His reply took a little longer this time. 

 _How are you this anal retentive even when you’re clearly drunk?_  

 _Years of practice. Will you please help me?_  

 _Always and without question. What do you need me to do?_ _X_  

* * *

It took James well over twenty minutes to call her, as opposed to the ten he had promised, which meant that he subjected Lily to another twenty minutes of Bryce and his long story about the year he’d spent in South East Asia, and the many enlightening experiences he’d had there. She wisely switched from champagne to water, and whiled away the time by losing herself in a torrid fantasy that involved a metric tonne of chips and sticky chicken wings. By the time her phone actually rang, her stomach was raw with hunger, and she could have wept with relief. 

“Oh _no_ ,” she said, and sighed. “I’m so sorry, but this is my partner – work partner, I mean, not my romantic partner.” She wished. “He’d only call if it was about a case, give me a minute.” 

Bryce opened his mouth to say something, no doubt a treatise on the dangers of modern technology and the obsolete art of letter-writing, but Lily had already stood up, and moved swiftly away from the table with her phone pressed to her ear. 

“What is it, Potter? I’m on a date,” she said loudly, and gave Bryce a cheery, dishonest wave as she darted off. James, of course, laughed down the phone. 

“That is no way to speak to your rescuer, Evans,” he jauntily scolded. Wherever he was, Lily could hear traffic in the background. “I’ve got half a mind to hang up on you.” 

“What was that? They found something?” God, but she was terrible at subterfuge, and her own voice sounded hollow and overly rehearsed to her own ears. “This really isn’t a good time – okay, I think I’m far enough away from him.” 

She leaned against the graffiti-marked wall near the toilets, and shook her hair out of her face impatiently. “I actually can’t take it any longer. He’s been going on and on and _on_ about how he ‘found himself’ during a thirty-day fast in Chennai.” 

“Chennai?” 

“Yeah. He was on a fact-finding mission, whatever that means. I wish he’d bloody left himself there.”  

“You poor thing,” he said, chuckling. “Why don’t you go home and find yourself in a takeaway?” 

“Urgh, don’t mention food to me, I’m  _starving_ ,” she moaned. “Thank you so, so much for being my emergency call. You are a god among men and I will pay you back for this.” 

“I’ve never been someone’s emergency call before, so I’m deeply honoured.” 

“Well, I’m glad that I was your first.” 

James laughed again. “My first what? You’ve been so many.” 

“Oi,” she warned, and her face was suddenly the colour of the sangria Beatrice had served at her party. “You’re such a flirt.” 

“Better me than him, though.” 

“That’s true,” she agreed. “Alright, I’m going to break the news to him. Thank you so much again, you’re the best mate ever.” 

“You’re welcome. Good luck.”

“See you at work tomorrow,” she said, smiling, her evening improved tenfold on account of this one conversation, until a fraction of a second later, when a belligerent force beyond her control compelled her to open her own mouth and insert her foot. “Love you.”

Her heart slammed into her ribs with the force of a truck, and James was completely silent for a few long, painful seconds, then, “Love you, too.”

“Bye,” she said, and hung up on him. She started at the phone without blinking for a couple of seconds, heart skittering about in her chest in search of an escape route. “You fucking idiot, Evans.”

It probably helped that she was so flustered, because when she came to Bryce with a fabricated story about a breakthrough in a difficult murder case, he accepted her words without question. He had already paid for the champagne, so she said goodbye and legged it out of the bar. The relief she felt upon seeing the late evening sunshine lasted only until she ran into James, who was waiting outside, half-sitting on a sandwich board and holding a brown paper bag.

“Surprise!” he said, grinning mischievously. “Consider yourself rescued.”

She stared at him with her mouth open. 

“I know I’m really attractive, but you don’t need to gape at me like you’re catching flies, that’s rude.”

Lily shut her mouth, but promptly opened it again. His hair was damp, probably from a shower, and she was sure she’d never seen a man look so good in a plain white t-shirt. He was _so_ fit, it hardly seemed fair, and the words ‘love you’ bounced around her head like a ping-pong ball gone rogue.

“Were you— but…“ She frowned. “How exactly?”

“Booth told me what bar she’d left you in, so I thought I’d come and fetch you from Bruce Globetrotter in there.”

“How long have you been out here?”

“Since I phoned you. I was watching you through the window,” he explained, and laughed. “You nearly bottled it when you told me you loved me, it was dead funny.” 

Whether his mirth was a good thing or not, it appeared that James had taken her words at their most innocent inference, which loosened the knot of anxiety in her chest. Her bearings returning to her, she raised her eyebrow in a passable imitation of indifference. “If that’s how you feel about my gestures of friendship, James, don’t ever expect to get one again.” 

“I bought you a McDonald’s on the way here,” he said, and held out the bag. “Nine chicken nuggets and a Big Mac meal, just for you.” 

“I was wrong, I  _do_  love you,” she hurriedly amended, and snatched it out of his hand. 

“Course you do,” he said, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Come along, beautiful, let’s get you home.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well. This is a chapter and then some. Batten down your hatches, I guess. Really, it’s too long, but I don’t have the heart to split it. Consider it my apology for taking a week off at the end of May. I’d also like to promise that this chapter contains the last scene involving alcohol-fuelled socialisation for a while, and those of you awaiting more police station/McGonagall scenes will have your needs met from chapter eight onwards.
> 
> Glossary time!
> 
> Addenbrooke’s: A very prestigious teaching hospital in Cambridge.  
> South Bank: South Bank University, London.  
> Blotto and rat-arsed mean the same thing: Drunk.  
> This one is for Katie’s benefit, but ‘fancied herself a bit of rough’ basically means ‘she wanted a bad boy’. That isn’t as exciting as it seems.

**Chapter Seven**  

 _It is March 23_ _rd_ _, 2007, and Lily Evans has been nineteen-years-old for forty-five days. She lives in a small house on the outskirts of Cambridge with her father, and works as a porter in a local hospital. Such a life is a far cry from the university career she had planned not one year ago, but that Lily Evans had two living parents and fewer financial restraints. Things have changed in a year, and while she has adjusted reasonably well to her new surroundings, she spends considerable time musing on that which she has lost._  

“I was thinking of becoming a copper.” 

“Were you?” 

“I’m looking into it, yeah.” 

Mary MacDonald trailed a path through the foam that sat atop her cappuccino, then sucked it off the tip of her finger. “Because of Potter?” 

“No,” said Lily lightly. “Because of Dad, actually.” 

The weather was dismal, hailstones buffeting the windows of the café and a chill wind biting the noses of the passers-by who scurried about outside, pulling their scarves tight around their raw, red faces. Despite the downpour, Lily had braved the elements to meet Mary at the station, and treated her to lunch in the city. She hadn’t seen her friend since a brief meeting at Christmas, but spring term had finally finished, so Mary was visiting for the weekend. 

“You’ve never been interested in joining the police before, not for as long as I’ve known you.” 

“Dad and I have had nobody to talk to but each other for half a year, so I had a choice between listening to him talk about work, or _Star Trek_. No offence to _Star Trek_ , but the work stuff was more interesting.” 

“What about South Bank?” 

“That’s… I dunno.” Lily jerked her head noncommittally, her mug of hot chocolate pressed against her chest for warmth. “I only deferred the course, so I can go in September if I want, but it doesn’t really appeal that much anymore, to be honest. Not Drama and Performance, anyway. I think with Mum and everything, and working at Addenbrooke’s – I mean, I’m only a porter, but I’m still helping people, and I’ve really enjoyed it, actually. It’s been sort of cathartic. And dad’s boss here, McGonagall, she thinks that—” 

“You know it helps people to entertain them, right?” Mary pointed out. “Nobody’s going to think you’re an uncaring person if you don’t pull a Mother Teresa.” 

“I know.” 

“I know you know, but it’s still worth pointing out.” 

“I know it’s not any less noble to be an actress, or whatever, but I’ve thought about it a lot and I do want to do something where I’m actively helping people. In a more direct way, I mean. And training as a police officer is a lot more cost-effective than medical school, or drama school, for that matter.” 

“Well,” said Mary, with a slight shrug. “You’ve always given a shit about other people – can’t say that I’m with you on that one, but I think it’s sweet.” 

“You care about _me_.” 

“Just a little,” said Mary, with a smile. “So, what does this McGonagall have to say?” 

Lily took a sip of her drink and licked whipped cream from the top of her lip. “She’s Dad’s DI. I’ve met her a couple of times and she says I’ve got the right attitude for the job. It’s tough to get into, but she reckons I’ll have no problem with the assessments and I’ve been going to the gym three times a week—” 

“I was going to mention that you look great.” Mary nodded to Lily’s bare arms, which were still slender, but certainly more defined than they ever had been. “I’m glad you’ve been working out, I didn’t want to say that grief suits you.” 

“Grief is responsible for the bags under my eyes and my chewed-down fingernails; my thighs are all down to hard work.” 

“And hot chocolates?” 

“And the occasional hot chocolate.” 

“ _And_ harder drinks later,” Mary reminded her. “Where would you train? Here? Or would you come back home?” 

“To be honest, probably here. One of the reasons I started thinking about it is because uni’s so expensive. Mum earned a lot more than Dad so it was fine before, and we’re, like, comfortable enough with our combined incomes, but he’ll really struggle with the mortgage if I move back now.” 

“I thought your mum had life assurance?” 

“Joint life assurance,” Lily corrected. “On a second death basis. The money doesn’t pay out until Dad passes, and we got a lump sum from her pension, but Petunia wasn’t willing to scale back her wedding.”  

“Your sister is a fucking bitch,” said Mary venomously. “No offense.” 

“Well, if you ask her, she’ll tell you I killed Mum,” said Lily. “So feel free to insult her all you like.” 

Lily’s parents, who had pumped their savings and a large chunk of their respective incomes into living in London while their daughters received the best educations possible, had always wanted to move to Cambridge – her father’s home city – once their youngest daughter left home for university. Eight months prior, with Lily headed for South Bank in the autumn, they’d sold their pokey, two-bedroom flat in Ladbroke Grove and taken out a mortgage on the cottage that Lily now called home. The purchase of the house coincided neatly with the car accident that shattered Lily’s wrist, fractured her jaw and killed her mother. Grief, as Mary had put it, did not suit Lily particularly well, but it had spurred her to find a vocation, at the very least. 

Tragedy, such as that which Lily had experienced, could bring families together or tear them apart, and though she was closer to her father than she ever had been, Petunia had revealed a part of herself that was putrid with rot, like the slimy, grub-infested underside of a rock flipped over. Lily had given up James Potter for the sake of her family when it would have hurt less to carve out her lungs, but her sister wasn’t willing to cut salmon and caviar canapés from an eight-course wedding breakfast. The relationship between them had broken irreparably. 

“I’d like to do more than insult her,” said Mary darkly. “What does she think you did, got the other guy drunk and shoved his keys into his hand?” 

Lily shrugged, and took another mouthful of hot chocolate for lack of any response. An uncharacteristic softness came over Mary’s face, and she bit down on her plump, ruby red lip. 

“I’m sorry, love,” she said, and reached across the table. Lily responded by slipping her pale hand into Mary’s darker one. 

“It’s alright.” 

“No, it’s not. I’ve got no tact. You know how I am with this stuff – full steam ahead and all sharp edges, tell me I’m a bitch if you like.” 

“You’re not a bitch.” 

“I’m a bit of a bitch.” 

“Alright, maybe a bit,” Lily admitted, with a small smile. “But don’t – honestly, I’m through with being delicately handled. Not talking about it doesn’t change that it happened.” 

“You’ve done so well, though. Like, holding down a job and getting buff and making plans for your life. I’d be a mess.” Mary squeezed her hand. “You’re so strong, love.”  

“Getting buff,” Lily repeated, with a giggle. “It’s not like I can lift my own weight, or anything.”  

“Whatever, I can’t even open a jar of marmalade.”  

“Nor should you, marmalade is disgusting.”  

Mary let go of her hand and flopped backwards in her chair, smiling. She picked up her cup and tilted it back and forth, swirling her coffee around. “I suppose I can forgive you for not coming home, since you’re getting your life together.”  

“I was thinking I’d visit, though.”  

“Ooh, yes. When?”  

“Dunno. Summer, maybe? I haven’t – I mean, we could have a girly night in the city, go get massages and a dinner or something, and I haven’t seen James in such a long time, and I know he started police training last year, so I thought that if I get in, it’d be like a surprise. For him, you know?" she added, smiling to herself at the thought of how he'd react to her news, and at the thought of seeing him, or even hearing his voice. "We haven’t really spoken much since the funeral, just one or two texts before Christmas, but I really – what is it?”  

She was, perhaps, acting a little doe-eyed, growing more animated, more alive, at the idea of seeing James Potter again, but Lily couldn’t feel a slither of embarrassment about it, because the concept of positivity as an emotion that lay within reach of her tired, grasping fingers had been hard-won after a brick wall of pain. The problem was that at some point during her convoluted monologue, Mary’s expression had grown disconsolate, even guilty. Lily knew that expression, because she’d seen it in the eyes of the doctor who told her that her mother was beyond saving, and in the faces of the family of the man who had killed her. She’d worn it herself, on the day she’d told Severus Snape that she couldn’t return his affections, and when she’d told James that she was leaving London – the first and only time she’d seen him cry since they were very small children.  

That expression meant that Mary had something to tell her, and that something wasn’t likely to bring her joy. 

“It’s nothing,” said Mary quickly. “Nothing, really.” 

“It’s not nothing,” Lily replied, as a horrifying thought occurred to her. Her eyes widened. “You two aren’t—“ 

“What? No!” Mary cried, so loudly that their waiter, who had been approaching their table, turned on his heel and swiftly retreated. “I’m still with Eddie, on and off, but also _no_.” 

She couldn’t yet allow herself the luxury of relief. “Spit it out, then.” 

“I don’t want you to get upset.” 

“ _Mary_.” 

“No, I’m serious.” 

“Upset is my default setting lately,” Lily reminded her, leaning forward on the table. “There’s no need to hold yourself responsible. It’s fine. What is it?” 

Mary sighed, a heavy, resigned sound. “Potter has a girlfriend.” 

Lily had known, of course, to expect nothing but those words, but an invisible, malevolent entity reached out and punched her in the chest regardless. 

“Oh,” she said, her voice hollow. Her ears were ringing. “Who?” 

“Isabella Marks,” said Mary softly. “But honestly, I think he was just trying to get over—“ 

“Izzy?” 

“I mean – yeah, but—“ 

“Izzy fancied him?” 

“Apparently.” 

Isabella Marks was a friend of Lily and Mary both, not a close friend, but a friend regardless. In the six years Lily had known the girl, she’d never shown a blind bit of interest in James, nor had she interacted with him, aside from the occasional hello in the corridor at school. This explained, at least, why Lily hadn’t heard from her in months.  

“Well,” she said, and swallowed the lump in her throat. “She kept that one quiet.” 

“I think she realised that she didn’t have a shot with him while you were around.” 

“Don’t,” said Lily, because those words hurt more than anything else that Mary possibly could have said, and her eyes were welling up, and she was about to start crying in the middle of a café. She hadn’t cried in public in four months, and it shamed her to start again at this juncture in her life. “How long? How long have they been together?” 

“We should talk about something else.” 

“Mary, if you don’t tell me, I’ll just text Curtis, or Tansy, or _anybody_ else we know, so it might as well come from you,” she said firmly, even as a tear escaped the corner of her eye and their waiter hovered awkwardly at the next table, and Mary was clearly, desperately uncomfortable. This was a band-aid she had to rip off at once, because peeling it slowly back was a far worse agony. “How long?” 

Mary chewed her lip in contemplation, but quietly accepted her defeat. “Since December, I think?” 

“Is it serious?” 

“It wasn’t – yeah, I think so. Since recently.” 

“And he’s happy?” 

She opened and shut her mouth. “I don’t know.” 

“Have you seen him? Does he seem happy?” 

“I haven’t,” Mary admitted. “I only know what I’ve heard from the girls. But I’m so sorry, love, I wish I could punch his lights out for you. I will, if you want me to. Hers as well. I can stab her with one of her own Louboutins.” 

Lily’s laugh may have left her chest, but it never escaped her lips. She blinked hard, staring at the window, determined at least to keep the volume of her tears to a respectable minimal. “Don’t be daft.” 

“I will though,” Mary insisted, and reached for Lily’s hand once more. “I never thought he’d do something like that.” 

“Why?” she said dully. “I told him to.” 

“What?” 

“When we split up.” The words felt thick and heavy, falling from her lips against her will, as if she were speaking in a language that wasn’t her own. “I was – Mum had just died, I wasn’t, I mean, I couldn’t think like that at the time and I didn’t know if I’d ever come back. I told him to – to move on. Find someone else, whatever.” She laughed, a dry, humourless sound. “He did what I asked. He always does what I ask.” 

A pause. “Lily?” 

She tore her stinging, traitorous eyes from the hail-battered window. “What?” 

“What do you mean, split up?” said Mary, her brow furrowed into a frown. She cocked her head slowly to one side. “When were you ever together? On his birthday?” 

It took Lily a moment to realise what Mary was talking about. “No. Not his birthday, that was just a—“ Her heart hurt. “A kiss.” 

“Then when?” 

The lump in her throat was threatening to burst. “Last summer.” 

“Last sum—you never told me,” said Mary, half-impatience, half-pity, but clutching her hand, anchoring her to the room. “For how long?” 

“One day,” she said. “Just one.”

* * *

 _It is June 15_ _th_ _, 2015, and we’ve jumped ahead a little further. Lily Evans and James Potter have been back in each other’s lives for eighty-four days. They’ve had dinner together on nine evenings, shared a bed on six individual nights, been to the cinema twice, seen Shakespeare in the park and binge-watched a couple of boxsets in their pyjamas. They’ve put away a murderer, a gang of armed robbers and a sex offender. They laugh together a lot. They hug a lot. For all intents and purposes, they’re happy, but probably not as happy as they could be._  

“I know a game we can play. Who’s in?” said Sirius. 

Such innocent words, they were, or would have been, had they fallen from any other lips. But Remus Lupin knew Sirius Black very well, and therefore he knew better than to be easily fooled. 

“I think we need to hear what the game is first,” he said, and came to a halt by the booth. “I’d quite like to go home with the contents of my wallet intact this time.” 

Sirius looked up at him, rumbled. “I thought you were still at the bar.” 

It had been Remus's turn to get a round in, and he'd bought a refill for everyone but Peter Pettigrew, who still had half a bottle of dry red to himself. He set the tray down on the table and Lily stood up to let him squeeze past her. “You thought you’d chosen your moment well, you mean.” 

June 15th marked two years to the day that Remus was released from hospital following his brush with death, so he'd woken up that morning in a good mood, and had felt like celebrating his survival. Though it was Monday, his favourite colleagues were happy to join him at a lovely little pub close to the station. After a delicious meal, good conversation and four rounds of drinks, they were all a little merry, but Sirius had grown restless. A restless Sirius Black usually made for a decline in the tone of an evening. 

Sirius, who knew that Remus knew this, tipped his fresh vodka blackcurrant towards him in salute. “Well struck, Moony.” 

“I didn’t realise that this was a joust, but if you say so.” 

“What’s the game about?” said Beatrice, who was wedged between Sirius and the wall, in the seat opposite. 

“It’s called First Times.” 

“And?” 

“And, everyone spills the beans on their first time, then rates it out of five. Winner gets a prize.” 

“What prize?” said Beatrice. 

“First time doing what?” said Peter. 

“Playing Hungry Hungry Hippos, Pete. What the fuck do you think?” 

“He’s talking about sex,” Beatrice explained, stroking her pin-straight, butterscotch brown hair. “Knocking boots. The beast with two backs. This is his way of getting his dirty, pervy hands on our virginity stories.” 

“That’s not a game,” Remus pointed out. 

Sirius shrugged. “Up for it, then?” 

“Sure,” said Beatrice, who had been slamming her way through one Bloody Mary after another all evening. “I’ve got a terrible story, and I might as well give you all a laugh. Not that I was terrible, of course,” she amended, and smiled at Remus in a slightly predatory way. 

Startled, Remus looked pointedly at James for help, but James didn’t notice because he was sitting directly across from Lily, and they – two skilled, successful detectives – were engrossed in making silly faces at one another. Like children. 

At Beatrice’s assertion, Sirius rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. What about the rest of you?” He nudged James with his elbow. “Are you two game?” 

“Game for what?”  

“What are you talking about?” Lily chimed in. 

Sirius looked from James to Lily and back again, disgust twisting his handsome features. “Were either of you listening to me, or were you too busy texting under the table about how much you wish you were getting her pregnant?” 

“We only do that when you’re boring us,” said James, grinning.  

“Seriously, though,” said Lily. “What were you talking about?” 

“No. Tough shit,” said Sirius, firm in his commitment to remaining offended. “You weren’t paying attention, so you have to play. Who’s first?” 

Lily and James exchanged an amused look. Remus wished they had been listening, as one of them might have objected to Sirius’s stupid game to spare the other pain – Lily, perhaps, unless she was just as clueless as James, who could have set a new world record in letting hints sail past his head. Remus didn't feel comfortable discussing prior sexual encounters with anyone, never mind someone like Beatrice Booth, whom he liked, but not in the way she wanted him to like her.  

His decision to voice a polite protest was made, sadly, a hair too late. 

“I’ll go first!” said Peter. “It was the spring of 2002, and I was an aspiring—“ 

Remus momentarily forgot his reservations in light of this shocking information. “Pardon?” 

“What?” 

“What age were you in 2002?” 

“Fourteen,” said Peter proudly. “Going on fifteen. She was – I think the correct word is ‘cougar’ nowadays.” 

“That’s fucking disgusting,” said Beatrice cheerfully. 

“Oh god,” said Lily, laying one of her palms flat on the table in front of her. “I’ve just realised what we’re doing. Can we just—“ 

“No,” said Sirius flatly. “But it’s nice of you to join us here on planet Earth. Carry on, Pete.” 

Lily took her phone out of her purse and started composing a text message, her fingers moving furiously. Had Remus been of a more curious bent, he might have read it over her shoulder. He respected privacy, however, and he already knew that she was texting James to tell him that Sirius was an idiot, so there wouldn't have been much point anyway. Had she been less receptive to the piña coladas she’d been throwing back, she may have been subtler with her secret correspondences, but she’d swerved around her three-drink rule and had a paper umbrella stuck in her hair, as sure a sign as any that she was blotto.  

“How much older was she, Peter?” Beatrice was asking. 

Peter frowned. “I don’t know, really. She was one of Mother’s friends, so I think she must have been in her forties.” 

“This never happened!” Sirius barked. “Not a fucking chance!” 

“Yes, it did!” 

“Let me guess what happened next,” Sirius continued, his voice dripping with scorn. “The plumber turned up and joined in? We’re talking about the first time you shagged an actual woman, Pete, not the first time you watched porn.” 

“I’m telling the truth, she seduced me!” 

“Yeah, Sirius, she seduced him!” cried James, looking up from his phone. 

“Thank you,” said Peter haughtily. 

“No problem, mate." James placed his phone on the table, took his straw out of his drink – James loved fruity cocktails, the brighter the better – and flicked Sirius on the nose with it. "Don’t let anyone clip your wings, he's just jealous.” 

“Her name was Mrs. Longb—Enid. Enid Longbottom,” said Peter. “She was a divorced lady, very attractive, and as it happened, an excellent cook.” 

“If you shagged her on a stove, I will get up and leave,” said Lily. 

“As I blog regularly about the importance of hygiene in the kitchen on _Pain au Pettigrew_ , Lily, I think you would know that I’d never commit such an act on a stove,” said Peter feelingly. “Unless you haven’t read—“ 

“Pete,” said Sirius. “Focus.” 

"Right. Anyway. As you all know, food is my true passion in life, and I had always admired Mrs. Longbottom's homemade crumpets." 

James choked on his drink and spat it into a dirty dinner napkin. Sirius had to slap his back for him. 

“I asked her for the recipe,” Peter continued. “She came to the house on a Saturday afternoon to whip up a batch. My parents were visiting my gran.” 

Nobody said a word. Nobody dared. 

“We got started on the crumpet batter, but pretty soon, things became amorous.” 

“And you had sex in the kitchen!” Beatrice breathed. 

“No!” cried Peter in complete disgust. “Kitchens are for food! We did it in Mum and Dad’s bed. I had a single bed, you see,” he explained sheepishly. “And Enid was, er, a little overweight.” 

“This is amazing,” said Lily. “Amazing. You’re a detective and your first sexual experience was completely illegal.” 

Peter shrugged. “I wasn’t complaining. Besides, where do you think I got the recipe for those crumpets you all tuck into whenever I’ve been baking?” 

“Peter, no,” said James. “ _No_.” 

“I still call bullshit,” said Sirius, sliding a stack of five beer mats towards Peter’s hand. “Since you won’t admit it, give the experience a rating out of five. Honest, mind. Don’t give yourself a high score just because you want to win.” 

“What does the winner get?” said James. “If we’re all going to cheat, we need some motivation to do it.”   

“The losers do the winner’s paperwork for a full week.”   

“That’s not fair,” said Beatrice. “I don’t have paperwork like the rest of you.”   

“If you win, Remus will give you a sensual massage,” Sirius offered.   

“Excuse me?” said Remus. “Do I get a say in this?”   

“Keep your hair on, mate. Peter, what rating have you given yourself?”   

“Four,” said Peter, indicating to the four mats he had lined up in a row. “I had to subtract a point because once we had finished, she telephoned her ex-husband in tears. It would have been a three, really, but I can’t forget the crumpet recipe. It really is wonderful.”   

“That’s a truckload of shit, Peter. What about you, Remus?” Sirius stared him down. “Care to recount the story of your first roll in the hay?”   

Remus took a swig from his gin and tonic. “I need to finish this drink before I feel like sharing. Since you’re so insistent upon making us tell our stories, why don’t you go first?”   

“Fine,” Sirius agreed, and cracked his knuckles. “It happened right before I ran away from home. I was sixteen. An unrealistic age, you’ll agree, given how fit I am.”  

“You’re not my type,” said Beatrice. She grinned at Remus and he was forced to look pointedly at James again.   

“Nor mine,” said Lily, who was looking at James anyway.   

“Shut up, you both have terrible taste,” said Sirius. “I was at a house party – some bloke whose family had dealings with mine, this twat named Lucius Malfoy. Couldn’t stand him. Always had a jumper tied around his shoulders and carried a cane with a silver topper. I hadn’t been invited but I crashed it anyway. Malfoy had this girlfriend, Lyra Selwyn. She was as thick as two short planks, but well fit. Anyway, after spending a year with that wanker she reckoned she fancied herself a bit of rough. We had it away in his hot tub while the stupid git drank pinot noir with his posh mates. He was _livid_ when he found us.” Sirius laughed at the memory. “Lyra stalked me for weeks afterwards, which was a bit difficult, but I managed to avoid her.”      

His story was met by total silence as he grinned around at their dumbstruck faces.   

“What?” he said.   

“That’s genuinely horrifying,” said Lily. “I’d throw my drink at you if it didn’t cost £8.95.”   

Sirius shrugged. “He ended up marrying my cousin Narcissa, so I hardly ruined his life, did I?” He tore a mat in half. “I’ll do the decent thing and give myself three and a half, because I’ve had better since, and because she was Malfoy’s girlfriend to begin with.”   

“I’m so glad I’ve never slept with you,” said Beatrice.    

“Yeah, well, I only ever offer once,” he dryly intoned. “It’s your turn now, Remus.”   

Remus would have liked to turn him down but Sirius would only continue to pry until he got what he wanted. He took another swig from his drink and set it down, massaging his temple with his middle and index fingers. 

“Fine,” he said. “Only because I’ve had a few of these to drink, but I’m just giving you the short version.”   

“Why the short version?” said Sirius. “Is that what you gave her?”  

"Sod off, Sirius," said Lily. She nudged Remus's arm with her elbow. "Go on."  

"Fine." He blew out a breath. "Her name was Dora, she was my first proper girlfriend, it was her birthday and we went camping with some of her friends. I had my licence so I drove everyone up there – Dad owned one of those old Volkswagen camper vans. Anyway, I knew she wanted to... you know, so we did. While her friends were at the pub," he added hastily. 

Sirius pulled a face. "In the back of the van?"  

"It had a bed in the back. I tried to decorate it a bit, I suppose, but it didn't look that great. And that's all I'm telling you."  

"Aw, Remus," said Lily, and patted his hand. "That's so sweet."  

"Seriously?" said Sirius. “I’m disgusting, but Remus has it away in a dirty old van and he’s sweet?” 

“You _are_ sweet,” Beatrice agreed. “And I bet you knew what you were doing in that camper.” 

“Someone control Booth before she takes a flying leap at him,” said Sirius, who was sitting next to Beatrice, and therefore the only person who was physically capable of restraining her, should she choose to fly at anyone. “Rate the deed, Moony. I hope the rest of your stories aren’t as boring as this one. Hers will be,” he said, grinning at Lily, who threw her napkin at him. 

“I’ll give it a three,” said Remus, setting the mats down on the table. “I think that’s fair, since I didn’t know what I was doing.” 

“More honest than Pete, anyway. Who’s next?” 

“Me,” said Beatrice. “This isn’t a boring story, but it’s not a good story either.” 

“Brilliant. We’re all ears.” 

She sighed, but her eyes were alert and vivid. She was the kind who thrived when all focus was on her. “His name was Terry Heaney.” 

“I know that name,” James interrupted. “Didn’t I—“ 

“Arrest him? Probably,” said Beatrice flatly. “The first thing you all need to know is that I was going through my bad boy phase, which meant that nothing was off the table. Terry told me he'd been arrested for stealing a Mercedes. I couldn't resist his dark looks, and I didn't know any better."  

She stared off into the distance, enjoying her moment.  

"After he got released, he summoned me to his mother's house. She was round at the bingo."  

James started sniggering and couldn't stop.  

"Anyway, we adjourned to his bedroom, which was in the garage—"  

Sirius started to laugh, followed shortly by Peter, and Lily had pressed three fingers against her lips, valiantly biting back her amusement.  

“First, it became clear right away that Terry was a – a foot fetishist,” Beatrice continued. “I wasn’t into it, and we tried to get things going without any weird stuff but he couldn’t get hard, so he started to cry—”  

Lily let out a noise like a strangled cat and buried her face in her hands.  

“And I couldn’t stop him, he was just crying, and crying, and he asked me if he could, y’know, do stuff to my toes. And I, like a total fool, I let him. I just let him do it. And then, when he was finally able, he lasted for twenty seconds before—”  

“Before what?” said James, as if he might burst open at any moment. He was laughing so hard that his entire body had sagged against the table. “Before his mum came home from the bingo?”  

“No!” said Beatrice. “Before he reached completion. It was tragic. The most underwhelming experience of my life. And the worst part was that he hadn’t been arrested for stealing a car at all, he’d been arrested for getting caught in a shoe shop with his – with his hand down his pants.”   

This was too much, even for Remus, and the entire table was off, howling with laughter while Beatrice nodded sagely at them.  

“Laugh away,” she said. “I’m giving it one out of five because it makes for a good story. Nobody’s going to do worse than that.” She drained her glass and stood up. “Have your laughs while you can, I’m getting another drink.”  

It took a few minutes for everyone to calm down. Remus and Lily managed to regain their composure quite quickly, unlike James, who had become hysterical and needed to get up and walk around before he could collect himself and return to the booth, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes beneath his glasses. When Beatrice came back with a Bloody Mary for herself and another gin and tonic for Remus, the assembled party had finally managed to stop laughing, but she glared round at the five of them before she sat down.  

“We’ve been mates for nearly ten years,” said James to Beatrice. “How have I never known that you had it away with the Foot Locker Bandit?”  

“You never asked me if I’d had it away with the Foot Locker Bandit.”  

“I didn’t realise that it warranted a specific question.” 

“Well, it fucking did, alright?” 

“That was great,” said Sirius, and clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and ringing. “Now that Booth has been shamed, what about you, Lily Evans?” He turned his gaze on the redhead. “What about _you_?” 

“What about me?”  

“What’s your story?”   

Lily gave a small sigh and set her cocktail down on the table. “Is this avoidable? I mean, in any way?”   

“No.” 

“I can just refuse to tell you.” 

“And then you’d be no fun, and you don’t want that,” Sirius reminded her. “Just fess up. You’re a grown woman who still drinks out of a straw, so we already know that your story is dull. Share with the group.” 

Sirius and Lily were an odd meeting of opposites, Remus often observed. Following their initial meeting, Sirius had wanted so badly to dislike her and had expended considerable effort to make her feel excluded, but he _did_ like her, no matter what way you looked at it. They seemed to enjoy ribbing each other, and worked well together whenever Sirius assisted her and James on a case. Whatever worked for them, Remus supposed, as long as it kept the peace. He had to give Sirius credit for knowing how to work an angle, however, because Lily could never back down from a challenge, particularly not when Sirius presented it. 

“Fine,” she agreed, and proved Remus right. “You’re expecting me to duck out, but I won’t give you the satisfaction. I was eighteen.” 

“Boring!” 

“Shut up, Sirius!” said Beatrice, with a gleam in her eye. “I want to hear this.”  

Sirius was too busy grinning evilly to heed her. “Did you present him with a full itinerary beforehand? I bet you made him shower before and after, didn’t you? I bet you – ow!” 

Beatrice had punched him. 

“Girl,” said Lily, and she and Beatrice shared a high five across the table. “I was very discerning when I was eighteen, Black. I waited until I was eighteen because I didn’t want to waste my first time on someone disappointing. Someone like _you_ , for example.” 

Sirius muttered something about top quality meat, but everyone ignored him. 

“Anyway, so – okay, you are _so_ lucky I’ve been drinking, you prick.” 

“Stop stalling and fucking tell us already.” 

“Alright. So – _urgh_ – so one of my best friends at the time was this boy named Severus Snape—“ 

“Lily!” Beatrice gasped. “You didn’t!” 

“No!” Lily cried, appalled. “If anyone interrupts me again, I’m not finishing the story.” 

Nobody spoke, and everyone but James was watching Lily intently. _He_ was looking at his phone, tapping idly at a colourful game, feigning a lack of interest when Remus could tell by the crease between his brows that he cared more than anyone else present, and for that, Sirius Black probably deserved a thump for his thoughtlessness. This story was bound only to end with James being hurt, and Sirius was a fool to let his own desire for mischief get in the way of remembering as much. 

“Good,” said Lily loftily. “Anyway, Sev had been, I don’t know, possessive? I mean, to the point where he hated all my other friends, male or female, and whenever I wanted to hang out with anyone else he’d use little ploys to make me feel guilty, like threatening to hurt himself or run away or – stuff like that, stuff I fell for at the time. It was so stupid, in hindsight, but there – anyway, look. Point being, one day we’re having lunch and he tells me that he’s in love with me and that we should be together, which I didn’t see coming at all because I was an imbecile.” 

“What did you do?” said Beatrice, sloping forward, desperate to catch Lily’s every word. 

“Turned him down,” she said. “I was nice, I mean, I explained kindly that I didn’t feel the same way, but he got really nasty. He said a lot of really disgusting, hurtful stuff, so to make a long story short, I told him that we weren’t friends anymore, and took off.” 

Beatrice raised her glass to her. “Queen.” 

“So,” Lily continued, toying with the straw in her drink. She was blushing, though Remus could only tell because he was right next to her – it was disguised well by the warm light of the pub. “That felt pretty great, actually. It was like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and I could do whatever I wanted without worrying that he was going to go off the rails and make me feel responsible. And there was this – well, this other boy I really liked, and he—“ 

“What was his name?” said Sirius quickly. “You forfeit if you leave out details.” 

She took a sip of her cocktail. “Jack.” 

“Jack what?” 

“Reed,” she replied, with narrowed eyes. “It’s not a fake name, Black, can you please stop with the interrogation?” 

Sirius sat back, and held up both hands as if in surrender.  

“Thank you.” She fished the straw out of her glass, flicked some foam off the end and stuck it back in. “Anyway, Jack liked me – I mean, he’d told me as much, but Sev had sort of made it impossible for us to be together because of the behaviour I told you about, and I’d been so stupid that I’d let him manipulate me into it even though Jack was a million times the person he was. Only Sev was out of the picture now, so I went straight over there, to his house. His parents were away at some event, I don’t remember, but he invited me in.“ She shrugged. “And it just happened.” 

“Your first time was a spontaneous fling with some random bloke you fancied?” said Sirius.  

“And?” 

“It just seems a little unorganised for you,” he said, with a sweet smile. “I can’t imagine that anything you do isn’t premeditated.”  

“Shows what you know,” she said. “What do I do now?”  

He handed her the beer mats. “Rate the experience. So far, you’ve got my three and a half to beat.”  

“I gave mine four,” Peter reminded him.  

“That you did,” said Sirius. “Three and a half to beat, Evans.”  

Lily rolled her eyes, but arranged the mats in a neat little row in front of her glass. Sirius blinked at them in disbelief.  

“ _Five_?”  

“No way!” cried Peter.  

“Nobody’s first time is a five, Lily,” said Beatrice, pointing at the mats as if they all couldn’t see them already. “Unless – oh god, was he really experienced? Did he have a huge dick? Was he one of your _teachers_?”  

“No, Bee, I’m not Peter,” said Lily calmly. “He was my age, and it was his first time too.”   

“Have you had shit sex all your life, Evans?” said James. At some point, he had put his phone away, and if he wasn’t looking at Lily before, he was making up for it now. His eyes raked over her face, but in a cold, clinical kind of way, like he was trying to memorise every detail for an exam. Lily locked eyes with him and her face burned. 

“I don’t – probably,” she said. “I don’t know.” 

“Because Booth is right,” James continued. “He wasn’t – he couldn’t have been that good. Nobody is, when it’s their first time.” 

Lily’s expression was unreadable. “Well, _he_ was that good. I can’t go back in time and make him do a bad job because you don’t think it’s feasible.” 

“Fine,” said Sirius. “We’ll bite. What made your precious Jack Reed so good when he’d probably never sniffed at a vag—“ 

“Sirius!” 

“Don’t be crass,” said Lily. “He was really sweet.” 

Sirius scoffed loudly, but Beatrice elbowed him and nodded at Lily, her eyes alight with interest. “Go on,” she said. “How was he sweet?”  

Lily shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Remus could feel the tension radiating from her. “You know,” she said. “He was, um, concerned with my needs, and, erm—“ 

“And?” 

“And I dunno,” she breathed, impatient and agitated. “He was perfect. Gorgeous. Exquisite, or whatever, however you want to describe it, he was – I wanted to spend every waking minute of my life with him _all_ the time, so yeah, maybe we weren’t experienced, but he was a five in all the ways that actually matter. And as for _you_ , Sirius Black,” she added, pointing an accusatory finger at Sirius. “You can be snarky all you like, but you’re not taking that away from me. Anything else, but not him.” 

“Did you really like him that much?” said James, resting on his forearms. 

“Of course I did,” said Lily. “I was – I mean, I was in love with him.” 

His shoulders twitched. “I never knew that.” 

Lily’s face now glowed so brightly that no amount of mood lighting could disguise it, and she and James stared at one another with undisguised intensity. Wherever they had gone, whatever muddled chapter of their history they were silently revisiting, the rest of them could not follow. “You never asked.” 

“Maybe this is a Foot Locker Bandit situation all over again,” put in Beatrice. “And it had to be a specific question.” 

“Hah!” said Sirius, in an obvious attempt to break the tension. He clapped his hands again. “That definitely wasn’t a five, Evans, but if you’re going to be stubborn about it, fine.” 

“It’s romantic, though,” said Beatrice. “What happened between the two of you afterwards?” 

“Nothing,” said Lily simply. “Who’s left?” 

“Nothing?” Beatrice repeated. “So, what, he just fucked you and that was it?” 

“No, that’s not how it happened.” 

“But you said he liked you, and that you loved him, so what? He never called? Why would he—“ 

“No,” Lily repeated. “He wasn’t like that. I was the one who called it off.” 

“But you just said—“ 

“Look,” Lily interrupted. “I forgot to text my parents that night to tell them where I was, so the next morning my mum came to his house looking for me, and we got into a huge fight in the car, and she – actually, no, I don’t want to talk about this. I’m going to the toilet.” 

She stood up and marched off. Beatrice’s mouth had dropped open while Peter was casting furtive, worried glances at the rest of them, but James didn’t seem remotely surprised. The stunned silence she left behind her was broken by Sirius, who gave a short, barking laugh and lifted his drink to his lips. 

“What crawled up her arse and bit it?” he said. “Any takers?” 

“Bloody hell, Sirius, her mother _died_ ,” said James, suddenly rounding on him. “They were hit on the driver’s side by some drunk scumbag on their way home. That’s why she left London – her parents had bought a house in Cambridge and her dad couldn’t afford it by himself. That’s why I lost touch with her, and _that’s_ why I was never angry about it.” 

Sirius opened and closed his mouth like a stunned fish. “You could have bloody told me that months ago!” 

“Why? It wasn’t your business, and you’ve been determined to hate her no matter what I said.” 

“Hang on, I _like_ Evans, and anyway,” Sirius hotly protested. “She was telling you the whole time that she was interested when all the while she wanted to shag this other bloke!” 

“I need to go after her and apologise,” said Beatrice, who looked stricken. She stood up, and Sirius moved to make space, but James stayed resolutely where he was. 

“No, just leave her alone,” he ordered. “She doesn’t like being bothered when she gets upset, and she’s just waiting for everyone to talk about something else. When she comes back, we’ll all act like nothing happened. Especially you,” he said, with a glare for Sirius. “And if anyone mentions Jack Reed to her again,” he added threateningly. “I’m going to punch them right in the face.” 

And then, for Remus, at least, everything clicked into place all at once. 

“Well,” said Sirius. “I feel like a prick.” 

“You are a prick.” 

"Thanks." 

"What should we say when she gets back?" said Peter. "Should we apologise to her?" 

James shook his head. "No. She'll come back in a minute and act like it never happened." 

“I think I’ll get her another cocktail,” said Sirius, to everyone’s surprise. He climbed to his feet and shrugged at the inquiring looks he received. “What? I can’t apologise for being a prick every now and then? What is she drinking?” 

“Piña colada,” said Beatrice, who still looked mortified, and Sirius squeezed past James and strode off. For a few minutes, everyone sat in silence, while Remus mused quietly on the truths that the night had thrown out, feeling enlightened, and more than slightly proud of his own perceptiveness. 

“I feel like such an idiot,” said Beatrice suddenly. 

“It’s fine,” said James. “You didn’t know. Also, I’ve probably been too hard on Sirius.” 

“I knew that her mum had died, I just didn’t think—“  

“Seriously, she’s not going to be angry about it.” 

“Are you sure I shouldn’t go after her, though? She might need a hug or something, or—” 

“No, don’t go after her. She’s – look, she’s coming back now anyway.” 

Remus sat up straight and looked over his shoulder. Lily was indeed returning from her short trip to the bathroom. She smiled brightly at them all when she arrived at the table. 

“Sorry about that, I just needed the loo quickly. Budge up, Potter.” She didn’t return to her seat, but sat next to James, who loped an arm around her shoulders and whispered something in her ear, something that made her laugh. 

“Sirius went to get you another cocktail,” said Remus, sliding Lily’s half-finished drink towards her. “As an apology, for starting this whole thing.” 

“Cool,” said Lily. “Can you give me those beer mats too?” Remus pushed the mats towards Lily and she took them with a smile. “You’re up, Potter.” 

James looked taken aback. “What?” 

“You know what,” she said, and nudged his ribs. “You’re the only one who hasn’t shared.” 

James grinned at her as he took the mats from beneath her outstretched fingers. “Can’t I just give her a five and move on?” 

“No way, I’m not having that,” Sirius interrupted, having returned from the bar with Lily’s drink and a new one for himself. He set them down and tried to take the mats from James, but his best friend had excellent reflexes. “You can’t have a five too.”  

“Why not?” said James, looking affronted.  

“Because you haven’t even told—“  

“Her name was Emily,” James began. “Emily Edwards. She was _the_ fittest girl I’d ever met in my life, and she initiated it.” 

“How?” said Sirius, and dropped into the seat next to Remus, who had budged over. 

“Took her dress off in my bedroom.” 

“She did _not_ ,” said Sirius. “No girl does this.” 

“She did,” said James serenely. “And she climbed into the shower with me the next morning.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“You’re so jealous, it’s hilarious.” 

“You’re not having a five because you hired a stripper to take your virginity.” 

“Oi! Rude!” said Lily, with a giggle, and tossed a mat at Sirius. “We’re not doing this fairly, with everyone judging their own experiences for themselves. We need to put it to a vote.” 

“How do we do that?” said Peter. 

“Remus, can you pass me my handbag? I’ve got a notepad and pen in there somewhere.” 

Remus dutifully passed Lily her bag, and the desired items were soon produced from within its depths. 

“We’ll vote on Peter’s story first,” she instructed, and wrote Peter’s name at the top of a blank sheet of paper. “Everyone must rate every experience but their own. Sirius, what rating do you give Peter?” 

Sirius snorted. “Two.” Lily looked at him sternly. “Okay, fine. Three. I like the crumpets.” 

“Three,” Lily repeated, writing the number down next to Peter’s name. “Fair enough. I give Peter a four. Banging an older woman is impressive, even though that story was thoroughly disturbing. What about you, James?” 

“Four.” 

“Beatrice?” 

“Four.” 

“Remus?” 

Remus smiled at Sirius, who was looking very unhappy. “I’ll give him a five. For the crumpets, and because it pisses Sirius off.” 

“Five it is,” Lily repeated. “So that gives Peter a total of twenty, which divided by the five of us, gives him an average of four! Well done!” 

The table gave Peter a round of applause and he raised his wine glass to toast them individually, clearly chuffed. 

“Alright, Sirius next,” Lily carried on. “I personally rate Sirius’s first time as a two because it was sleazy and disgusting. James?” 

James grinned. “Three, but only because he’s my best mate.” 

“Two,” put in Beatrice. “Hot tubs are clichéd, and I didn’t feel that his story contained much emotional resonance.” 

“Agreed. No likeable lead characters, either. It’s a one-and-a-half from me,” said Remus, and chuckled at the outraged expression on Sirius’s face. “I’m joking, I’m joking. I’ll give you a three.” 

“Three,” said Peter. “I’m trying to be gracious in victory.” 

“That’s a total of thirteen, Sirius,” said Lily. “Which gives you an average of slightly over two and a half.” 

“You’re all just dicks, anyway,” said Sirius, sliding down in his seat. “I want a recount.” 

“No,” said Lily flatly. “Right, Remus, your turn.” 

Remus, to his surprise, was given a modest average of three-and-a-half out of five. Beatrice was next and got a resounding average of half a point from the assembled group, which she was very pleased about. James came next, as Lily was conducting the vote, and was given a four – everyone but Sirius was impressed by the sexy shower. Then, it was Lily’s turn. She wrote her own name on the paper and looked around at the rest of them uncertainly. 

“Well,” she said. “Be honest with me.” 

“Five,” said James immediately. 

“Five,” agreed Beatrice. “I enjoyed the backstory because you got rid of that creepy mate of yours. It was a good coming of age moment, if you will.” 

“Five,” said Peter. 

“Definite five,” Remus agreed. “What do you think, Sirius?” 

“I think this is grossly unfair.” 

“Come off it, mate,” said James, who still hadn’t taken his arm from around Lily’s shoulders. She looked quite cosy in her current position, Remus thought. She and James fit together like they’d been made and meant for it. “You didn’t lose, you just came second-last, and Lily has you beaten anyway. Give it up.” 

“Fine, then,” said Sirius. “I’d probably give you a four, but since I’ve been a prick, I’ll give you a five.” 

“Twenty-five in total, which makes an average of five! I won!” said Lily, and beamed around at them all. “Enjoy my paperwork, guys, although I’m willing to let any one of you off the hook if you’re willing to buy me a pizza.” 

“I’ll get you your pizza, Evans,” said James. She smiled up at him, and they were the only two people in the room, while Remus silently congratulated himself on his discovery. He wasn’t an arrogant man by any means, but he was certainly right more often than not.

* * *

_It is June 16th, 2015, a little after midnight. Lily Evans has arrived home far too late, and far too drunk. She is thoroughly ashamed of herself, and sincerely glad that Minerva McGonagall cannot see her in such an unseemly, un-detective-like state._

By the time Lily got home and let herself inside, a headache was pounding in her ears and her bladder was screaming at her to offer it some relief, thanks to a lot of drinks and a tube delay at Golders Green. Without pausing to switch on the light, she tossed her keys in the direction of her sofa, slammed the door behind her and ran to the bathroom, her handbag smacking hard against her outer thigh. The smell of dirty cat litter hit her in the face as soon as she burst inside, and so she ended up hunched over her sink, decorating the pristine porcelain with the contents of her stomach, a volcanic eruption in a clean, confined space. It was not a dignified entrance, and she finished with a spasm of pain in her gut, but felt better for it all the same.

“I’m a mess,” she said aloud, wiggling out of her pants. Her cat seemed to agree, and stared at her when she sat on the toilet, laying her wordless judgement at her owner’s feet. Algernon must have been giving her lessons in silent dissatisfaction. 

“Remind me to clean out your sh—your thingy, no, your  _litter box_  in the morning,” she said to Darla, and dabbed at her mouth with toilet paper. “I’m a detective sergeant and I’m drunk on a Monday night. Can you believe that, Darls? It’s all Black’s stupid fault.” 

Darla licked her own leg in response, which put Lily in mind of a shower. Once she’d finished on the loo, she climbed in and scrubbed her body raw in the hope that washing now might relieve tomorrow’s hangover. That, along with throwing up, seemed to do the trick, and she felt clean and comfortable when she stepped out. Leaving the litter box full and her sink destroyed, she removed herself to her bedroom and climbed into bed naked, and with her hair still wet. Darla joined her for a cuddle and Lily switched on her television, intending to watch Netflix until she nodded off.  

She was dozing through a romantic comedy when her phone buzzed in her handbag, reminding her that she needed to charge it for tomorrow. Once she’d retrieved it, scrambled back into bed and plugged it into the wall, she noticed that James Potter had sent her a text message fifteen minutes ago.  

 _hi emily x_  

She drew her knees up to her chest, heart racing, and quickly responded, hoping that he hadn’t gone to bed yet. After the evening they’d just had, she desperately wanted to keep talking to him, all night if she could, every night, enough nights to make up for all the nights she’d missed when she moved away, though there would never be enough to compensate for their lost time. 

 _Hi Jack x_  

James never let her down, though, and he started to reply right away.

 _i know youre a tough detective now but did you get home safe and sound xxx_  

 _I got home in one piece, don’t worry X_  

He read it as soon as it delivered, but didn’t respond, so she assumed he was going to sleep, satisfied of her safe return. She set her phone on her bedside table and pulled her covers over her legs, idly scratching Darla’s ears with one hand, and barely paying attention to the television. Her mind was lost in another romance entirely – her own.

She and James had that one night together, nine years ago, and as tragic as the events that followed it had been, it had been the most beautiful, perfect night – not because either of them knew what they were doing, but because he was James Potter, and it would have been criminal and wrong if her first time had been with absolutely anyone else. She hadn’t ever forgotten it, nor would she, not the sound of summer rain against his bedroom window, not the way he’d touched her, tentative at first, but more confident later on, and always with a kind of reverence she’d never known from another man since. She hadn’t forgotten the look on his face when she slipped out of her dress and let it fall to the floor, and she hadn’t forgotten how it felt the next morning, to be held in his arms beneath a haze of hot water, or just to lie there and kiss him for hours on end, sinking into his pillows like quicksand, never wanting to leave.

In March, they'd seemed to settle on an unspoken agreement to never talk about it, but the memory of it was ever present. It lingered in the background of every look and word and thought she'd shared with him since the day she came back, always just out of sight, but now it felt as if they'd blown cobwebs out of a hidden corner. Everything was so much clearer. 

She and James were supposed to be together and they always had been, it was that simple. Lily had been a fool to consider the alternative. Now, the onus was entirely on her to make him see what _she_ now saw, as plain as day. 

As if he was intent on proving her right, Lily's phone buzzed again and she knew instantly it was James. She snatched it up immediately. 

_so you were in love with me then?_

She dropped onto her back and pulled her covers over her head, kicking her legs like a child paddling in shallow water, and squealed at the top of her lungs. Darla jumped from the bed, likely startled, and when Lily emerged from her fit of girlish glee she felt breathless and giddy. Without pausing to think about what she was doing, she dialled his number and pressed her phone to her ear.

He picked up after one ring. “Hey, you.”

“Hi,” she said. “Are you alone?”

“I’m in bed.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He laughed softly. “And who would I be with, Mrs. Longbottom? Algernon’s here, if you think he counts.”

“Oh,” she replied, with a giggle of her own to match his laughter. She drew circles on her duvet with her fingernail. “I think he counts, and I think _he_ thinks he counts, which is ever more pertinent.”

“You’re drunk, Evans.”

“Don’t be rude,” she warned. “I have something nice to say to you, so you better be nice back.”

Through the phone, she could hear his mattress creak as he shifted his body, and she felt a low, painful throb of longing. “What is it?”

“Something I can’t say in a text, because it wouldn’t be fair.”

“If you tell me you’re moving back to Cambridge, I’m kidnapping you and keeping you under my bed.”

“Under your bed?” She frowned. “Why can’t I sleep in it, if I’m going to be a hostage?"

“You _could_ , but as much as I love having you stay over, I get uncomfortable sleeping in my pyjamas every night,” he replied contemplatively. “And as a hostage, I can’t let you sleep outside of my room, in case you escape.”

“So what? Sleep naked,” she boldly suggested. “I do.”

“Do you?”

She lifted her duvet to double-check that everything was in order. “I’m naked right now.”

James didn’t respond for several seconds, but she heard his mattress shift again, and a surreptitious clearing of this throat.

“Right,” he said eventually, and coughed. “Well, I hope you’re fine with me picturing you naked, because that’s what I’m doing right now.”

Lily shrugged, knocking her phone with her shoulder. “I don’t mind. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Someone’s bold when she’s had rum, isn’t she?”

“It’s true though,” she doggedly persisted. She had a vague, ill-formed, half-idea of how she wanted this conversation to go, and she was just drunk enough to avoid the pitfalls of anxiety and nerves. “There’s not much left to hide, once you’ve been inside someone.”

He laughed again, a sudden, surprised splutter down the phone. “You really are rat-arsed, Evans.”

“A little, yeah. Do you mind?”

“No,” he said emphatically. “It’s just a bit strange to talk about it, that’s all.”

“Well, Sirius sort of blew the lid on pretending it never happened, so there’s no point in ignoring it now.”

“Yeah. And at least they don’t know about it,” said James. “ _And_ I’m the best you’ve ever had, according to you. Maybe I should thank Sirius.”

“I never said that!”

“You sort of did.”

She laughed. “Alright. I _did_ give you a five, and I suppose you have been the best I’ve ever – I mean, when you rate the experience _overall_.”

“Like an Olympic judge,” he quipped. “Full marks for presentation, but I flubbed the dismount.”

“Your dismount was fine, and I’m the one who deserves full marks on presentation.”

“Only because you had an unfair advantage.”

“Which was?”

“You were – and still are – an incredibly beautiful woman who took her clothes off in my bedroom,” James reminded her. “There’s literally no way to improve on that. I was a scrawny rake who looked better with clothes _on_. Out of the two of us, I got the better deal.”

“Shut up, you were fit,” she said. “I was _obsessed_ with you.”

“In love with me, actually,” he corrected. “You can’t go back on that now you’ve confirmed it.”

“I hadn’t planned on going back on anything,” she said, and hesitated for a moment, clutching her duvet tightly in her pale, clenched fist. “But I really was, you know. Even if I never said it at the time.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s what you called to say, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her. “I thought you deserved to hear it for yourself, privately, you know?” Despite herself, and her interest in prolonging the conversation, she yawned, squeezing her eyes shut. It must have been close to 2am. “And not in the middle of some stupid game that Sirius started. Even if it is nine years late.”

“Better late than never, I guess.”

“That’s such a cliché.”

“True, though,” he said fairly. “It’s nice to hear it, anyway. I hope I was hard to get over.”

“Ask me when – sorry,” she said, because she was overcome by another wide, blazing yawn. “If I ever do get over you, Potter, I’ll let you know, I promise.”

Again, James laughed, but kindly. He only ever laughed with her, and had never in his life made her the subject of ridicule, even when she deserved it. “You are drunk out of your skull and if I don’t make you go to bed now, I don’t deserve to be friends with you.”

“Fine,” she agreed, and stifled another yawn. “If I forget this conversation in the morning, m’sorry.”

“If you forget this conversation in the morning, I’ll remind you,” he promised. “Go to sleep, Lily.”

“Alright, Mum,” she agreed, though not unhappily. “Night night.”

“Night,” said James softly. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She hung up the phone and gently replaced it on the nightstand, blinking at the bright screen in what was otherwise pitch darkness, her consciousness already sliding towards a slumbering state.

Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow would be the day. She’d do something about it, when she was as good and sober as he deserved from her. She’d ask him out for dinner, ask her back to her place, something, _anything_ , but it would make things happen. She’d make him see.

She’d get him back. She knew she would. Tomorrow.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Few things make me happier than the fact that I got an _Arrested Development_ and a Lonely Island reference in one chapter.
> 
> Apologies for a slightly later-than-usual update. I normally update at work but I forgot to save my chapter to my OneDrive cloud storage as I normally do, therefore I wasn't able to update until I got home, and ate, and freaked out over the new _Game of Thrones_ trailer (I ship Sansa/Jon and Arya/Gendry exclusively), then lay down for about a half-hour complaining about the heatwave. British houses are good for keeping in heat, not so good for letting you live when it's baking outside. 
> 
> Which is ironic, because I wrote this chapter long before any heatwaves and my life decided to sing it back to me.

**Chapter Eight**

_It is June 16th, 2015, and following a rather irresponsible night out at the pub, James and Lily wake up on completely opposite ends of the hangover spectrum. James, who bears the distinction of being the most sensible drinker in their group last night, arises feeling alert and healthy, and goes to work in a very good mood, thanks in part to a certain conversation from the night before. Lily Evans, on the other hand, is an utter disaster._

The advent of a new day came with its own problems, namely sobriety, which was the enemy of conviction.

The night before, Lily had gone to bed fearless. She was a trailblazer, the maker of her own romantic destiny, and firm in her belief that if she let James Potter know how she felt, he would reciprocate without question. But the night before, Lily had also been drunk, and a mere three hours of restless, uncomfortable sleep had succeeded in ebbing her confidence away. The morning had no respect for the idealistic, romantic fantasies she’d dreamed up by the light of the stars.

Besides, she was hungover. At the peak of her attractiveness, she most definitely was not.

What remained, after all the rest was gone, was an overwhelming certainty that James Potter was – to put it in shameful, mushy terms – her soulmate.

Lily had nine years of hard evidence to support such a claim. She’d cycled through nine years of awkward dates, serious relationships and disappointments – she’d even turned down a marriage proposal – and had never felt truly connected to anyone, nor had she ever loved anyone as intensely as she’d loved him, all those years ago. She’d told herself, in her cynicism, that the strength of her feelings for James had only ever been a symptom of adolescent immaturity, and that real love was far more prosaic than that. But she was a grown-ass woman now, and James had consumed her like fire. Falling for him again had been as easy as if she’d never truly gotten over him to begin with.

She had to try, she knew that. Even if he didn’t want her, because he’d had nine years to change, grow, and develop other tastes, and because she’d had her shot and ruined it. In revealing her feelings, she ran the risk of rejection, and of learning in no uncertain terms that his compliments and kindnesses were meant to express only friendship. She ran the risk of losing what they had now, and that was truly scary.

Lily spent her morning ruminating on this, instead of the robbery she was supposed to be focused on – when they eventually arrested the people responsible, she’d have to remind them to thank her for buying them an extra day of freedom. It didn’t help that James wasn’t hungover at all, but looked fresh and collegiate, and _far_ too distracting, in his white button-down and tie. It didn’t help that she had a headache.

It didn’t help that the air-conditioning had broken down, leaving her to roast to death in an overlarge oven, drowsy from lack of sleep and unable to make sense of her work. It didn’t help that her colleagues kept stopping by her desk to ask if she was feeling quite well.

“How are we meant to work in these conditions?” she said aloud, resting her chin in her hand, eyelids fluttering shut every couple of minutes. Remus and Sirius were out, Lockhart was on vacation and McGonagall was at a meeting. Lily was supposed to be reviewing CCTV footage they’d pulled from Fleet Street, but James was shouldering all of the work while she slowly disintegrated in the heat.

“Maintenance will be in to fix it in a couple of hours, McGonagall said,” supplied Beatrice from her own desk, where she was fanning herself with _Now_ magazine.

Lily dipped her head and groaned, clutching the back of her neck. “I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die,” said James.

“I _am_ ,” she insisted, her head snapping up. He raised his eyebrows at her. “I’m going to die and I want you to do my eulogy.”

“I’m honoured,” he said, and placed a hand on his heart. “Here lies Lily Evans, who always got full marks for presentation.”

“I swear I don’t understand half of what you two talk about. I’m going for a wee,” said Beatrice, who had risen from her seat, and was moving in the direction of the toilets, but James only grinned. He was a little sweaty, had taken off his tie and yanked open the top two buttons of his shirt, and the small triangle of skin it exposed was crying out for Lily’s personal attention. Her body hummed pleasantly in response.

It didn't help that, aside from the hangover, and the headache, and the thick, oppressive heat, she had to contend with this painful, cloying desire for him.

“You’re really suffering, aren’t you?” he said.

It was so hot, and Lily felt so rubbish, that those words, coming from his lips, short-circuited her brain for a moment. Was she really so hungry for a taste of James Potter's body that he could sense it from his desk?

“What?”

“I can nip out and buy you a fan, if you want.”

Ah. He was talking about the heat. In the office. Not the heat between them, which Lily may or may not have been imagining due to hope. Her brain resumed normal operations. “No, it’s alright.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” he said, and stood up. He picked up his wallet and shoved it in his trouser pocket.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you a fan. Can’t have you dying on me, Evans.”

“No, don’t put yourself out.”

“It’s not your decision.”

“No. Really, don’t put yourself through so much trouble, you really don’t have to.”

“I know, but I want to. I’d be crap at writing your eulogy.”

The trouble was, a fan sounded wonderful, and it was hard to turn something down when you wanted it desperately.

“Are you sure?” she said weakly, leaning against her desk, her palms pressed against the wood. “It’d be ever so nice of you.”

“Course I am, and I’ll get you a smoothie on my way back.”

Was there ever a more perfect man on earth than James Potter? Possibly, but Lily had never met that man, and he sounded awful anyway.

“I honestly love you for this,” she said, smiling up at him with undisguised adoration, because she was too tired to hide it. “Marry me when you get back, yeah?”

James laughed. “Yeah, alright. Tell Booth I went to rescue some orphans, or something.”

He left with his hands in his pockets – not before ruffling Lily’s hair and saying goodbye to Slughorn and Peter – and Lily was left alone with her frantic, paranoid heart until Beatrice returned from the loo with damp patches on her chest and underarms.

“Splashed cold water on myself,” she said, in response to Lily’s unspoken question.

“Did it help?”

“Not at all,” she said, and dropped into her seat. “Where’s Potter gone?”

“Saving orphans,” said Peter promptly.

Beatrice shrugged, took out her phone and started taking selfies.

In truth, Lily was a little in awe of Beatrice. She was always so confident, breezing through life on her toes, constantly assured of her own appeal. So what if Remus didn’t return her affections? For every man who didn’t want her, Beatrice was convinced that five others did. That was the lens through which she viewed herself.

If Beatrice Booth were to fall in love with someone, she wouldn’t leave herself hanging for fear of being rejected, she’d simply march up to the bloke and demand an answer immediately, so that she could move on or get things started. And while Lily was not without a good deal of self-assurance – she knew that she was clever, and capable, and essentially a good person, and even attractive – Beatrice possessed a more evolved kind of buoyancy altogether.

The ember of an idea took root in her head.

Lily took a slow inventory of the office. Slughorn was reading a document and sucking on his crystallised pineapple, spraying sugar on his tweed jacket, while Peter was typing up a report. Slughorn wasn’t particularly interested in office gossip, but Peter was, and Lily didn’t want James to get wind of anything she had to say. She fired up the instant messaging system and started to write.

_LE: Bee, I need you to help me with something important and top secret, which is why I can’t come over there and ask you. PLEASE DON’T MAKE IT OBVIOUS THAT I’VE SENT YOU THIS._

It took a couple of minutes for Beatrice to put down her phone and notice Lily’s message, but when she did, her face was entirely blank. She pulled her keyboard towards her and began drafting her response, so Lily pretended to look busy by picking up her stapler and compulsively squeezing it.

_BB: Is this a work-related query, L? How many times do I have to tell you that the in-office messaging system is to be used for work-related queries only? Abuse of company software could result in a verbal or written warning._

Smiling slightly, Lily set down the stapler and responded.

_LE: Of course it’s not work related._

_BB: Ooh, yay! I wouldn’t have helped if it was. What do you need, chica?_

_LE: How do you seduce a man?_

Beatrice deserved a medal for her self-control, because she didn’t laugh, cough, or climb to her feet and announce that Lily Evans needed help getting into a bloke’s pants. Her only reaction was a frantic clicking of keys. Lily looked around the office again, wondering how many others abused the instant messaging system like she did, and if anyone ever got any work done at all.

 _BB: First of all, what the fucking fuck what started this? Secondly, I’m going to need some context._  
_BB: OMG this is about James, isn’t it?_  
_BB: I KNEW IT!_  
_BB: You two are so cute together. Congrats!_

Evidently, Lily was so desperate for James that everyone in the station had noticed. It was a good thing that the bullpen was already so hot, or Beatrice would have noticed her blushes.

She couldn’t tell her about James, not yet, not when she didn’t know how he felt, or if Beatrice could be relied upon to keep her secret. She and Lily were very close, but she’d been friends with James for almost a decade, and was desperate to set them up. Lily suspected that if either of them had ever confessed their real feelings to her – not that James _had_ feelings to speak of – Beatrice wouldn’t have kept that knowledge to herself.

_LE: No!_

_BB: Yes it is._

_LE: It’s not. I got in touch with Jack after I got home last night, and we’re meeting up._

_BB: VIRGINITY JACK? FIVE OUT OF FIVE JACK? JACK THE SHAG? THE ORGASM THAT JACK BUILT?_

_LE: No, Jack Nicholson, who do you think? Yes, that Jack._

_BB: What about James though?_

_LE: What about James? We’re just friends._

_BB: I DON’T BELIEVE YOU._

_LE: Well we are, so I don’t know what else I can say._

_BB: I DON’T BELIEVE YOU._

_LE: You are truly the worst._

_BB: Thanks. Also I DON’T BELIEVE YOU. You and James are NOT just friends and you did NOT get in touch with Virginity Jack last night._

_LE: You’re going to be so embarrassed when you realise how wrong you are._  
_LE: But if you’re going to be like that, fine. Pretend I’m trying to seduce James, if it helps you._

_BB: I’ll help you ON CONDITION that for the rest of this conversation you play along with your own suggestion. Except you won’t be playing along because you really do want to seduce James and it’s as obvious as Black’s unquenchable boner for his own reflection._

_LE: I’m really not trying to seduce James._

_BB: Yes you are YOU LOVE HIM also you’re not playing along._

_LE: FFS. FINE. I would like to seduce ‘James’. Can you help a girl out?_

_BB: Sure. Just take your clothes off._

_LE: What?_

_BB: Make sure to wear your hair down, too._

_LE: I’m looking for something a little more substantial than ‘take your clothes off,’ to be honest._

_BB: Why? He is a bloke. That’s literally all you need to do. You got him in the sack before, so why do you need my help this time?_

_LE: Because back then he was a teenage virgin and very easy to please. And it just sort of happened. It’s not like I specifically asked for sex, we were just kissing and things progressed. He’s had more experience since then. He won’t be as easy to seduce. He might be expecting STUFF and my moves are limited because every bloke I’ve slept with since has the sexual prowess of a rubber glove._

_BB: HAHAHA! He’ll be just as easy to seduce. Take your clothes off. When are you seeing him?_

Lily’s fingers froze. Of course, if she’d made fake plans to meet up with her fake first love to cover up the fact that she was trying to make things happen with her real first love, she would have settled on a fake date. Beatrice was watching her, however, so she hurriedly came up with another lie to add to the pile.

_LE: Tonight. After work. He’s picking me up from here._

_BB: URGH! I have Gang Bangers rehearsals tonight. How dare you deny me the pleasure of seeing Virginity Jack, who definitely isn’t coming because you never invited him, when you know that dance is my one true passion?_

_LE: I thought numerology was your one true passion?_

_BB: You can have multiple one true passions. Couldn’t you have picked a night that I could actually be here to NOT look at him because he’s definitely NOT coming?_

_LE: No. It’s the only night he’s free. DON’T TELL THE BOYS! Especially NOT James!_

_BB: Obviously I won’t tell the boys and I ESPECIALLY wouldn’t tell James. If you’re lying, which you are, he needs to hear that from you. If you’re telling the truth about Jack, it’d crush him._

_LE: Why would it crush him? What do you mean?_

_BB: Because it’s pretty obvious that he’s madly in love with you. URGH, it’s so hot in this fucking office. Please bring back a corpse on your next murder case. They are cold. Male preferably. I can keep it by my desk as a charming mascot. Clive. Clive the Corpse. We can do Netflix and chill. LITERALLY HAHA BECAUSE HE’S DEAD. Also he won’t ever interrupt to say things like WHAT’S HE DOING or WHO’S THAT or WHY DOES ONCE UPON A TIME HAVE SO MANY INCONSISTENSIES YET STILL DRAWS ME IN LIKE A MOTH TO THE FLAME IS IT CAPTAIN HOOK I THINK SO.  
BB: The last one is me, not Clive._

_LE: SHUT UP NO HE’S NOT._

_BB: Clive’s not what?_

_LE: NOT CLIVE. James! He is not in love with me! SHUT UP._

_BB: He so is though._

_LE: How do you know? Has he said anything?_

_BB: If he HAD said anything to me pertaining to his ooey-gooey feelings for you, I am such a good and true friend that I wouldn’t tell you, and would instead encourage him to tell you himself. So no, he hasn’t said anything at all._

“What?” said Lily aloud, her eyes meeting Beatrice’s across the room. “ _What_?!”

“What?” Peter echoed, staring at her.

“What’s the matter?” said Slughorn.

“I think the heat’s sending you potty, sweetheart,” said Beatrice, her lips curled in a knowing smile. She jerked her head towards her computer screen and started typing again. Lily watched her own monitor, helplessly, her heart beating a samba, until her next message arrived.

 _BB: Look, I’m not going to say any more on that because if James had hypothetically told me that he had feelings for you I would have already promised him that I’d keep it to myself OKAY?_  
_BB: But seriously what’s the problem? The two of you act like a couple anyway, and if you are planning on seducing ANYONE I don’t see why it can’t be him because, hello, wake up, you are CRAZY ABOUT HIM._

_LE: SHUT UP we don’t act like a couple?_

_BB: We both need to stop saying SHUT UP because neither of us is willing to SHUT UP. And yes you do. You were practically rubbing noses last night. I SAW you touching his knee._

_LE: OH REALLY? Did you see me touching his dick?_

_BB: NO OMG DID YOU?_

_LE: NO! I was a bit tipsy and he’s my best friend.  
LE: One of my best friends. Best friends can hug._

_BB: Oh sure, and best friends can shag like rabbits too. You don’t need my help with Virginity Jack, and if Virginity Jack is really Virginity Jack and not James, I’m honour bound not to help anyway because I can’t be party to breaking my friend’s heart._

_LE: So… take off my clothes, then?_

_BB: Yeah, basically. Works every time._

* * *

By half-past-seven, everyone but James had gone home for the night.

The air-conditioning had been repaired by three, and Lily, in a fit of jubilance, volunteered them both to pick up some paperwork that Lockhart had neglected to finish before going on holiday. James, initially, had been happy to help out, because that was what good detectives did, and mostly because any time spent alone with Lily was time he looked forward to immensely.

Then Lily cried off with a headache and left, and he'd been saddled with the paperwork of Lockhart, an inept buffoon who genuinely thought that the _Police Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award_ he'd found on his desk was a real accolade, not something that Sirius had photoshopped at home for a prank.

So there, a once-promising day had ended on a sour note for James, with him sitting alone at his workplace while Sirius and Remus were at the Chelsea match and Lily was at home with a headache that seemed - as much as he hated to admit it - pretty bogus, because she'd been _fine_ five minutes before she took ill and ran, laughing and joking and giving him these _smiles_ that - well, he wasn't sure what they meant, only that they were maddening, and that today, in particular, he'd found it impossible to get her out of his head. Last night had ended with such possibility, then today came along, dragging a dead end with it.

Five minutes, he decided, and then he'd go home. He'd leave the rest of it to Lily tomorrow and take off with a mystery ailment of his own, and that'd show her. He'd do some research on Google and come up with something that _sounded_ worrying but actually wasn't, like eructation, or gustatory rhinitis, or an ice cream headache, or-

"Hey," said Lily, from behind him.

\- or an undying, passionate love for the most perfect woman on earth.

"Evans?" he said, and turned his chair around. "What're you- oh."

"What?" She looked down at her outfit. "Is it bad?"

"Er... no," he said. "You've just..."

"Changed," she said. "I looked like such an unholy mess earlier, I thought I'd fix myself up."

She was wearing a very, very tight skirt and a blouse, all in black, and made from some sheer, flimsy material that James could have silently thanked the textile gods for several times over, with masses of that gorgeous red hair of hers flowing about her face, and the overall picture was - well, something he easily could have dreamed about later.

"Well, you look lovely," he said, painfully aware of his own body, and how he was one stiff breeze away from demonstrating his appreciation - a problem he often faced when in her presence, but one that never got any less worrisome to deal with. "You must be feeling better, then?"

"Oh," she said, and pushed her hair behind one ear. “I actually lied about that, if I'm being honest."

“Did you?”

“Yup.” She walked over to her desk - James could have sworn that she was swinging her hips a little - tossed the carrier bag on her chair, dropped her purse on her desk and straightened up, brushing non-existent dirt from her arms. “I didn’t actually have a headache, I had to go out and get these clothes.”

“Oh.”

“So, y’know, I’m really sorry for not being honest with you.”

“That’s – why, exactly?” he asked her, scratching the back of his head. “Not that I mind you walking in looking like that, or anything, it’d just be interesting to know the reason.”

“Yeah, no. Of course. It’s for a bloke.”

James had winded himself once, when he was very young, and some ill-conceived notion of greatness compelled him to fall backwards from a two-foot wall with his arms held aloft. He’d hit the ground with a bang so loud, he’d thought he’d shattered the earth in two, and gasped helplessly for air for minutes, his back spasming with pain, and in his naïve, six-year-old mind he’d thought, _you’ve had a good life, but it’s all over now_.

This felt a lot like that, but without the certainty of imminent death to distract him from the reality of just how much her words had hurt him, or just how blindsided he felt by this news.

Not twenty-four hours ago - and he'd been certain of it - Lily had been bordering on having feelings for him but today, _today_ she had a date with some bloke, who was probably far more attractive than him and didn't need glasses to see and was utterly perfect in a way James never could be, because he was a mess and she had it all together, and he'd have to do the typical _him_ thing and pretend that everything was fine, and that he was happy for her, and waste his life away for pining.

Except, somehow, that wasn't what happened, and the response he gave her was no response at all, just him glowering darkly at his monitor.

"Huh," he said, and wished that Remus hadn't confiscated his bouncy ball again, because he could have done with throwing something at the fucking wall. "Lucky you."

"I think so," she said, in an airy voice. "I mean, I _hope_ so, since I really don't deserve him."

"He mustn't feel like that if he's going out with you," he said, still eyeing the monitor because he couldn't look at her, then she'd know.

"Well, he's not going out with me, actually."

This registered somewhere in his gloom, the tiniest flicker of something bright and fleeting. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean I haven't asked him," said Lily. "This would be a lot easier to explain, you know, if you'd actually look at me."

He looked up - never one to deny her anything even when he was agonised - and she had her hands on her hips, head cocked to the side, and somehow managed to look very intimidating and incredibly sexy at the same time.

"Do you like my skirt?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Just - answer the question, alright?" She sighed. "Please?"

"Alright," he agreed, and gave her skirt the briefest of appreciative glances. "Yeah."

"What about my blouse?" she said, and placed her hand on her chest. "It's a bit flimsy, right? Sort of - almost transparent, I guess? Not appropriate for _here_ , anyway. I'm lucky McGonagall's not around." She paused in her speech to raise an eyebrow at him. "Nice or not?"

"Nice," said James.

"For sure?"

"I mean, I haven't examined it under a microscope," he said, glad to have at least a little of his snap back. "But yeah."

"Good," she said, but the word came with a harshly expelled breath, and she seemed nervous, almost vulnerable, that pink tinge in her cheeks deepening just a little. "Just one more, then."

She opened the top button of her blouse, and for a mad second, James thought she had a necklace she wanted to show him, but she didn't stop at one button, or two buttons, or even three, and then she was peeling her blouse away from her shoulders and he'd never seen her wear _anything_ like what she was wearing now, just that tiny scrap of black lace and the _shape_ of her, and she was stunning, and he needed her, immediately, or he'd lose his fucking mind.

"I had this thought," she said, and her voice was very soft. She had him, dead on, caught in those eyes of hers. "Taking my clothes off worked with you before, so I might as well try again."

He'd closed the space between them before she could toss her blouse at his feet.

* * *

"I’m so proud of you,” said Lily, apparently to herself. “High five? Don’t mind if I do.”

James, who had been on the verge of dozing, opened his eyes just in time to see her clap her hands together, before she started to laugh.

He propped his head up on his elbow, all the better to drink in as much of her as he could. The light in her bedroom was dim, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses – they’d been discarded somewhere in a jumble of limbs – but Lily was so close that it hardly mattered. While he had collapsed onto his back, she was still sitting, with her back ramrod straight against the headboard and her knees slightly bent. Waves of beautifully tousled red hair fell past her shoulders, her skin was damp, and she was giggling at her own hands.

He was transfixed by her.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Congratulating myself.”

“Think you’re that good, do you?”

"You didn't leave me much room to misinterpret you," she said, with a sly smile, and held her hand out, hovering a few inches from his face. "Come on, high five me."

He’d only just gotten his breath back, having just experienced the most blissful few hours of his life, and all he really wanted was to wrap Lily up in his arms and drift off into a deep, satisfied slumber – but he wasn’t about to disappoint her, not after… not  _now_. He drew himself up so that he was sitting beside her, and lifted his hand for her proposed high five.

But Lily, wily woman that she was, merely threaded her fingers through his.

"Got you," she said, glowing with triumph. She looked so _happy_ , and James could hardly bring himself to believe that he was the reason.

"That's not how a high five works, you know."

"Do you really care?"

"No."

"Then get off my damn case."

“Make me get off your damn case.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she said, and leaned forwards to press her lips to his – a sweet, chaste kiss that evolved into something else entirely in no time at all, and found them entwined, yet again, and James on top of her, pressing her against her mattress, and her soft, cotton sheets, while her fingers raked through his hair and he left a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses to her neck, and while he marvelled at how she could take him from half-asleep to wide awake and ravenous for her in the blink of an eye.

When she lifted her hips and pushed herself against him, he knew he had to pull away before neither of them got any sleep at all.

“Oi,” he warned. “Don’t get me all worked up again, I’m shattered.”

"You're already worked up," she said, with a wicked smile. "Anyway, never mind you. What about _me_? How am I supposed to walk tomorrow?"

"I'll find you a gurney and wheel you into work."

"That'll look normal on the tube. 'Sorry, can I just squeeze past you with my colleague? I fucked her into oblivion last night.'"

"Into oblivion, eh?"

"Total oblivion," she said, with wide, earnest eyes. "I think I'm still dead, in fact."

He dipped his head to kiss her again. "So am I still the best you've ever had?"

"Yes," she said, between kisses.

"You sure?"

"You're such a glutton for compliments. What else do you want me to say? That you banged me into another dimension?"

"That'd be passable."

"Well, fine. You banged me into another dimension, and I was congratulating myself because my plan worked."

"What plan?"

She allowed him another soft, languid kiss before explaining. "My plan to get you into bed. And on your desk," she added. "Actually, the desk wasn't planned at all, it was just a lucky bonus."

"Not that I didn't notice you were up to something," he said, and dropped another kiss on her forehead. "But you could have just asked."

"I thought you deserved something a little more theatrical, since you're James-bloody-Potter, and all."

"And desk-banging wasn't theatrical enough?"

"As I've already said," said Lily evenly. "Desk-banging was a lucky bonus."

"Well, in that case, good job ruining my doodles, Evans."

"Don't leave your doodles lying around on your desk, then."

"Where else am I supposed to leave them?"

"How about in your drawer?" she suggested, giggling. "Where they'll be safe? This is what the clean desk policy is all about, you know."

"They can't be admired in my drawer."

"They can't be admired on your desk, either."

"First of all, _ouch_ ," he said, and she laughed. "Second of all, is this all part of some ploy to make me stick to McGonagall's cleaning schedule?"

"You've found me out," she admitted, grinning. "This was all about the clean desk policy."

"I'll make sure to mention it during my assessment, you might get a raise."

"Which is exactly why I adore you," said Lily, and pushed gently on his chest. "Now off you get, I need a drink."

He rolled off her at once and onto his back, and Lily sat up, slipping her legs out of the bed. Then she stretched out, reaching high into the air, her head dipped backwards, and let out a sigh.

"In all seriousness," he said, staring at her back, or what of it he could see through her hair. "I'm really sorry if you're sore tomorrow."

"Only in a place that no one can see, don't worry."

His glasses were sitting on the nightstand nearest to his side of the bed, so he picked them up and put them on while Lily stood up and turned to face him. She was naked, aside from the thin, silver locket that nestled snugly in the hollow of her throat, and the light of her bedside lamp cast every curve and line of her in a warm, rosy glow.

"Eyes up here, Potter."

He tore his gaze from her breasts, which were perfect, and to which he had devoted a tremendous amount of attention earlier, and grinned at her.

"Sorry," he said, and wasn't sorry at all. "I looked at you and got dizzy."

She responded by covering her breasts with her arms, but he got a shy, pleased little smile for his efforts. "Do you want some water?"

"Yeah, actually, but I can go and get it."

"This is my flat, James."

"And you've gone above and beyond your duties as a hostess."

"Because I _wanted_ to," she reminded him. "Stay there, and admire my bum while I walk away, or something."

"Defeat me with logic, then," he pretended to grumble, and proceeded to thoroughly enjoy her bum as she left the room.

It must have been close to midnight, though he hadn’t checked the time in a while.

It had been quick, taking her on his desk, a sort of beautiful mess that neither of them expected, but between frantic, insistent kisses and that thing she did with her tongue and both of them clamouring to feel every inch of each other all at once, her hand had wandered to the zipper on his pants and he hadn't possessed the presence of mind to make her stop. A few minutes of ardent, breathless passion and then done, but she hadn’t minded. Neither had he, really – because she was _Lily_ , and how was he supposed to hold out after waiting nine years to feel her again, and when she’d taken him so by surprise?

Hours had trickled past since they’d left the station, since they’d sat across from each other on the train, blushing and unable to meet each other’s eyes, until they’d pulled in at his usual stop and Lily gave him a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head, and he knew that he was going home with her. It had still been light outside when she unlocked her front door. Since then, since they'd fallen into her bed and taken it slow this time, because damned if he wasn't going to savour every inch of her, and damned if she wasn't all too happy to let him, the sky outside her window had darkened and stilled.

James looked around the room while he waited, and noticed something on her nightstand that made him grin.

"Oi, Lily!"

"What?" cried Lily from the kitchen.

"I knew Beatrice wasn't lying about that photo!" he cried, and reached over to pick up the frame.

He heard her laugh, and bent his head to examine the picture. It was at least eleven years old, and had been taken on the pier at Skegness during some trip or other, just him and Lily, sharing some chips wrapped in greasy newspaper, both of them beaming at the camera over their shoulders. Her hair had been shorter then, and was swirling around her pretty, sunburned face in the coastal wind.

They'd been the same height, he realised, but he'd shot ahead of her at some point.

"It's my favourite," said Lily, and he looked up. She was leaning against the doorframe, mercifully still nude, holding two glasses of water and holding something in the crook of her arm. "We looked so happy."

"We _were_ happy," he said, replacing the photo.

She smiled at him, walked over to the bed and held out his glass. "Here."

He took it from her outstretched hand. "Thanks."

"And here," she said, and straightened out her arm. A bag of Doritos landed on her mattress. "Considering the workout I just gave you, I figured you'd be peckish."

"Doritos in bed, Evans?" He pretended to look shocked, while she slipped back into bed and took a sip of her water. "What about crumbs in your sheets?"

She shrugged. "I'll wash them tomorrow."

"Washing me off your sheets already? Thanks a bunch."

"There's an open invitation for you to come back and mess up my sheets whenever you fancy," she said, and set her water down. "Sooner rather than later, please."

He shouldn't have been surprised by those words, and he wasn't, not really - it was more of a jolt, an excitement, a feeling of utter joy that buzzed through his veins like an electric shock. He bought himself a second of composure by taking a big mouthful of water, then placed the glass on the nightstand.

"Is that what you want?"

"I dunno," she said, flicking at the edge of the Dorito bag with her fingernail. She wasn't looking at him now. "Do _you_ want to do this again?"

Lily wasn't playing with him, nor was she being deliberately coy - James knew her well enough to know that. She had left, years ago, of her own volition, and he had watched her struggle with her own guilt since the day she'd come back. If James was being totally honest, he'd admit that it was gratifying, knowing that he'd meant enough to incite that kind of feeling almost a decade after the fact, but that didn't mean that he wanted her to feel that way. The worst part of their shared past was done, and nothing was ever going to change it. He only wanted to go forwards, because there was nothing left for them back there.

But Lily was Lily, so whatever she wanted from him, James would have to ask her first - not because she wanted him to chase her, but because she believed that she had no right to ask.

And James, being James, had never been one for beating around the bush.

"I definitely want to do it again," he said, and tugged the bag from within her reach. "But as your boyfriend."

There was a moment, the briefest of moments, where he experienced a horrible flash of realisation, of  _I've said the wrong_ _thing_ and  _everything is ruined_ and  _I should learn to keep my mouth shut_ , but then it was gone, because she was on him like a tidal wave, her arms around his shoulders and her lips on his and nothing between them, nothing at all, not nine years, not a distance of miles, not family tragedies or missed signals or former best friends plotting to keep them apart, not even their clothes, just the two of them and kissing and _this_.

Her eyes were a little wet when she eventually pulled away, but she was happy, there was absolutely no mistaking that.

"So," she said, and sniffed.

"So," he echoed.

"We're together, then?"

"As long as that's what you want."

She nodded fervently, eyes shining, thoroughly kissed, beautiful. "I want that so much I could burst."

* * *

_It is June 17th, 2015, and as he has done a few times previously over the last few months, James Potter just spent the night at Lily's flat, but under entirely different circumstances. They wake up that morning in what could reasonably be described as a state of euphoria, and eat breakfast on the balcony with the early-morning sun on their backs, smiling foolish, happy smiles and stealing kisses from each other._

"Six texts," she said, her phone in one hand, toothbrush in the other. "Beatrice is stark raving mad."

"What was that?" said James, who was in the shower. Lily had let him have it first, because he was her guest, and because he really had banged her into another dimension.

And because he was her boyfriend. That too.

"I said Beatrice is mad," she repeated, raising her voice. "You can see how they deteriorated over the night, too. She must have been drinking. Text one: ' _How are things going with Jack the Shag? Hopped on his dick yet?_ '"

"Jack the Shag," repeated James, and laughed. "Is that my new nickname?"

"No, and never ask me that again," Lily replied, scrolling through her texts. "Text two: ' _Your lack of response is only acceptable if you're having sex this very minute, in which case please respond and rate between one and ten_.'"

James poked his head out of the shower. "Can I know that rating, for posterity's sake?"

"Twenty." She gave him a sly smile, and tried not to let her eyes wander. "This one, which she sent at 4AM, by the way, just says ' _Buckaroo.'_ " She frowned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

Her boyfriend, however, was too busy cracking up to help her decipher Beatrice's bizarre messages. With a sigh, Lily set down her phone and brushed her teeth, then replaced her toothbrush and peeled back the shower curtain. James had his back to her, scrubbing shampoo into his hair.

She allowed herself a moment to admire the view before tapping him gently on the shoulder.

"Darling?" she said. "Quick question."

He turned around immediately, swiping suds away from his forehead. "Is that my new nickname, then?"

She shrugged. "I'm still cycling through ideas. Why? Do you like it?"

"I sort of do, actually."

"Then you've saved me hours of work," she said. "Can I get in?"

James grinned at her. "As if you have to ask."

Smiling, she shrugged off her robe and stepped into the shower. James wound his arms around her as soon as she stood beneath the spray, and she snuggled against his chest, eyes shut tight while rivulets of hot water ran down her back.

"This may have been a bad idea," she said.

"Because?"

"Because we have to get ready for work?" she said, and chanced a glance upwards. She was in luck - James was so tall that he protected her eyes from being lambasted with hot water. "And because getting ready for work is definitely _not_ what I want to do right now?"

"Let's both call in sick, and stay in bed all day," James suggested, and his hands were travelling downwards, and Lily was ready for him to take her then and there, even though the staid, sensible part of her brain reminded her that work was imminent, unavoidable and full of people who were going to make a huge fuss about this. "Is armed robbery even that big a deal?"

"Because McGonagall wouldn't smell a rat?"

"Don't talk about rats when I'm trying to romance you, woman."

"Is 'woman' my new nickname? Because I object."

"I was considering 'snugglemunch,' but Sirius would be devastated that you stole his nickname."

"Or you could think of a normal nickname," she said, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. "How did Sirius react, anyway?"

"To what?"

"To us."

"Oh." He cocked his head to the side. Even with his hair plastered to his head and water dripping off the end of his nose, he was adorable. "I didn't tell him, actually. I just texted to say I was staying here."

"Probably a wise choice. He'll want to have his reaction to your face."

"Him and everyone else."

“They’re going to freak out at work, you know,” said Lily. “Well, no. Beatrice will freak out. Remus won’t care either way. Peter will – I don’t know. What _will_ Peter do?”

“Start planning our wedding,” James supplied, and they both started sniggering.

“He’d be _so_ into the catering.”

“We’d get a celebratory basket of crumpets.”

“Mrs. Longbottom’s special recipe.”

“With a huge cake, that he’d ice himself.” James lifted a hand into the air, as if he was spelling out words on the shower curtain. “ _Congrats on the sex_!”

“Except he’d spell ‘congrats’ wrong.”

“Congarts on the sex.”

They devolved into real, breathless laughter for a while, with James kissing her every so often between giggles, until it was more kissing than laughing, and she ended up pushed against the cold, tiled wall, while he made idle, then very deliberate, exploration with his fingers.

Which she should have put a stop to, but she didn't want to disappoint him and _oh_ he was good at that.

"Hey," she said, a little later, and more than a little weak at the knees. "What do you think you're doing?"

He shot her a crooked, self-satisfied grin, and it was all she could do not to drag him back to her bed, or even to the bathroom floor, anywhere with some traction. "Giving you a very good morning."

"We have to get to work."

"There's a tube strike on."

Her next retort died in her mouth. "Is there?"

"Somewhere, probably."

She nudged him with her knee. "Tube strikes are easily disprovable, especially since everyone we bloody work with takes the same line. I have to wash my hair and get dressed and turn up, y'know, not looking like I've been dragged through a hedge if we have to face telling them all today."

"Actually," said James, frowning. "Hmm."

"What?"

"I was thinking that we might... not tell them. Not yet."

Lily reached over his shoulder for her shower gel. "Why?"

"Because of McGonagall, mostly. She gave us a six month trial, right? But she was considering splitting us up when she knew we were friends as kids."

Lily frowned. "Shit. Yes, she did."

"So, obviously-"

"I never thought of that."

He laughed. "You never thought that McGonagall might separate us? I thought that would have been the first thing you considered."

"Yeah, well, I'm a bit blind when it comes to you, aren't I?" she argued. "I didn't really think anything beyond wanting to be with you."

"Can you repeat that?"

"What part?"

He grinned widely at her. "The whole thing? I heard it all perfectly, just want to hear you say it again."

"Oi, don't be cheeky," she warned, waving the shower gel bottle in a would-be threatening manner. "You're probably right about McGonagall. She asked when I came here to extend a professional influence, not start dating you."

"And the others," said James. "Like, we've already said, Booth is _way_ too invested in this - if she knew, McGonagall would end up knowing."

"And she'd put pressure on us."

"Honestly, I wouldn't mind Remus knowing, because he'd be fine, but Booth? And maybe Sirius, I dunno."

"I feel like I could undo three months of work with Sirius if he found out, actually," said Lily, and chewed on her lip. "I'm pretty sure he's only just about okay with us being mates."

"I mean, he likes you," said James. "But... yeah, I dunno? I mean, mostly, I don't want you taking any shit professionally because of this, just because you're still new. So it might be best to sit on it."

She nodded slowly. "For a couple of months, maybe."

"Until we've found our feet, yeah?" 

"And then, if we can go to McGonagall in a few months and prove that being together hasn't affected our work..."

"Exactly," he said, and smiled down at her. "It's not like anyone's going to suspect anything today."

"You stay over all the time anyway." 

"If you tell Booth that you cancelled with Jack and hung out with me instead..."

"She'd believe me," said Lily dryly. "Because she thinks we're into each other."

"Right. And why give her the satisfaction of being right?" said James. "We've been together, what? A few hours? We've got a right to some privacy, but as soon as we tell that lot, this isn't just _ours_ anymore, is it?"

He was right. It wouldn't be theirs, because as much as Lily adored their workmates, they were too codependent, too involved in each other, and other people had always been their problem. First Snape, then her family and then Isabella Marks had been instrumental, intentionally or not, in keeping them apart. And it wasn't that Lily was willing to lay blame at any of their feet, because it had been her decision to mollycoddle Snape, and her decision to move in with her father, but she had been aching for this to happen with James - for them to be really, truly together - since she was fifteen-years-old. She wanted some time to enjoy being just the two of them.

"We won't tell them," she agreed, with a firm nod. "You're definitely alright with that?"

"Absolutely."

"It's just- you're kind of a 'shout it from the rooftops' guy."

"I am, which is why they won't suspect anything when I do a bang-up job at keeping quiet."

"Beatrice will be so disgusted."

"Nah, she won't. She's the one who suggested a secret affair in the first place."

"Shit, she did, didn't she?" said Lily. The thought of it made her laugh. "I suppose that's what we're doing."

"Secret affair, then?" He stuck out his hand. "Better make a formal thing of it."

"Secret affair," Lily seconded. "But I'd rather we kiss on it."

"Deal," said James, swooping down to catch her lips again. "What a fun, sexy time for you."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have to apologise for being so late in updating this story. Work and illness and family obligations kicked my ass over the past two weeks and I simply didn't get it edited to standard in time. I really hope I'm forgiven.
> 
> Time for another glossary!
> 
> NCA: National Crime Agency - Basically a huge law enforcement agency that works specifically to combat organised crime  
> PC: Police Constable  
> Pentonville: A London prison
> 
> So here's the deal with chapter 10. It's coming, however, it may not be ready by next Wednesday. If it's not ready, 11 won't be ready, and I don't really want to keep taking breaks between updating. I work for a Game of Thrones website (aside from my actual day job, which is incredibly demanding at the moment) and with the seventh season coming up in less than two weeks, I'm currently scrambling to finish two rather large articles, one for this week and one for next week. They have to take priority over fanfiction, so that's going to cut into my editing time. When I started posting this fic, my life was a lot less hectic, but at the moment I'm fairly overloaded with work and haven't been taking care of myself, for which I was given a proper scolding by my partner and a bunch of my friends recently.
> 
> This entire fic is written, but as I've been posting and editing, it has evolved a bit, so there's still editing to do. So, in conclusion, 10 might not be up by next Wednesday, and I'm not going to post it until 11 is edited and ready to go, too, so please bear with me on this.
> 
> The good news is that the talented cgner has resumed posting _Playing the Hero, Being the Fool_ and there are two chapters (and an epilogue, I believe) to go in that story, which is great, because I plugged a gap for her during her break from fic and now she's inadvertently doing the same for me. If you haven't read her fic, and I'm going to assume that all of you have, go and do it immediately.

**Chapter Nine**

_It is June 25 th, 2015, and a blissfully sunny day in central London. Lily Evans and James Potter, who have now, officially, been in a relationship for one week and one-and-a-half days, have done an excellent job in concealing their romance from the rest of their colleagues, with only a few minor slips. One such colleague is Peter Pettigrew, a diligent, earnest fellow who bears the distinction of being the only member of the team with a steady, long-term partner, and who considers James Potter to be one of his all-time favourite people._

“Can I ask you a favour, mate?”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” said Peter cheerfully, and with a whimsical mock-salute. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re not busy, are you?”

Peter  _was_  a little busy with paperwork, as it happened, but he loved James – who was clever and talented, never poked fun at Peter’s eccentricities and appreciated his cooking – too much to deny him a favour. “I have plenty of time to help out a friend.”

"Cool," said James, who was swaying backwards and forwards on his feet, hands clasped behind his back. "Cool cool cool cool."

Peter waited for him to sit down and talk, but he didn't. "James?"

"Yes?"

"You needed something?"

"I - er - yeah, I did," said James, snapping out of his daze. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Peter followed his gaze, but saw only Lily Evans, who was sitting at her desk, deep in conversation with two of the PCs who'd been working with her on the assault case she and James had picked up two days before. "First - er - can we keep this extremely quiet? I mean, not a word to anyone else about it, I don't want anyone to know."

"What about Sirius?"

"Not even Sirius."

"Oh," said Peter airily, while his heart swelled with pride. Now was his time. He had been  _chosen_. "Of course, that isn't a problem."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes. I'm an excellent secret keeper," he assured him. "Did I ever breathe a word about Helena's toenail?"

James wore a look of pure disgust. “Not until  _now_ , you didn’t."

"I mean, it's not ingrown any more, she had the surgery-"

"I’ve changed my mind. I'm going to ask somebody else."

“No, wait, you can't judge my secret keeping abilities based on my girlfriend's toenail."

"I can judge them by the fact that you told me about it."

"Generally, though, I'm good at keeping my mouth s-"

"Now that I come to think of it," said James, with knitted brows. "I remember you told me what Remus had bought me for Secret Santa last year."

"Only to give him time to exchange the gift if you didn't like it!" Peter argued. "Besides, that doesn’t count because I told  _you_  the secret.”

“What?”

“If  _you’re_  the only person I tell secrets to, you can trust me not to tell anyone else, because I’d just want to tell you and you already know.”

"What kind of logic is that?"

"Theoretically sound logic."

"You know what? Fine," said James, expelling a sigh. "Nobody else can actually help me, anyway."

Peter beamed as James pulled over Remus’s empty chair and sat down beside him, resting his elbows on the desktop. He had a rubber band twisted around his fingers and was stretching it as far as he could, as if daring it to snap, but despite this, and despite his conspiratorial tone, he didn't seem particularly stressed. A little shifty, perhaps, but there was a lightness about him, an easy, carefree contentment. In fact, it seemed to Peter that James had been far happier than usual over the last number of days.

“So, I need a restaurant recommendation-" he began, but Peter cut him off.

“Wonderful!” he cried, though far too loudly – loudly enough that all eyes turned in their direction, and McGonagall, who was in an important, not-to-be-interrupted meeting with the Superintendent, came striding out of her office.

“Who was shouting?” she demanded, looking around the room.

“Pettigrew,” said Beatrice, who had placed a strange-looking box full of ultraviolet light on her desk and was holding one of her hands inside it.

McGonagall turned her shrewd, all-seeing eyes on him, and he shrank beneath her steely glare. “What are you yelling about?”

“I think Potter just proposed to him,” said Beatrice.

"I'm catching Peter up on our case, sir," said James, which was quite unlike him - normally, this would have been the opportune moment for him to make a joke. "He's very happy about our progress."

McGonagall gave them both a look that demonstrated her complete disbelief more plainly than any diatribe could.

"Unless your computer bursts into flame of its own accord, Pettigrew, or you fall foul of some other, unexpected disaster, you are both to speak at a reasonable volume for the remainder of my meeting. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," said Peter. "Understood."

When McGonagall was safely sequestered inside her office again, James fished a packet of salt from Peter's condiment jar and threw it at him, grinning. "Nice job, getting us in trouble with Mummy."

"Sorry," Peter squeaked. "I'm just excited! You know how much I’ve longed to introduce one of you to the wider world of fine cuisine.”

“It’s sort of difficult to get excited about food when you bring a spit-bucket to dinner with you,” James began, but Peter ignored him, and pulled his bottom drawer open with some difficulty – it was an old, janky thing that always got stuck. From it he extracted a large, fat red binder, set it neatly on top of his desk and flipped it open.

“Right,” he said, and began leafing through the pages. “Let’s get cracking.”

James appeared to be puzzled. "Is that binder full of restaurant information?"

"Yes."

"Why do you keep it at work?"

Peter chuckled in response. "Dear, sweet James, how else am I expected to stay on top of my game?  _Pain au Pettigrew_  has over thirty-thousand followers who rely on me to shape their culinary experiences on a daily basis, and you think it's strange that I keep a spare dining bible at work?"

"You've got another one of these?"

"I have an identical binder at home - of course, it's all digitised, but I have a real fondness for hard copies," he said, and smoothed down a page headed  _For Friends and Family - Beginners_. "Now, what exactly are you looking for?"

"Something fancy," said James immediately. "Do you have anything fancy in your binder?"

"Fancy is my middle name," said Peter. "I'm joking, it's actually Michael. Why do you need a fancy restaurant, out of curiosity?"

"Er," said James, and looked over his shoulder again. "There's a - there's a girl."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "A girl?"

"A woman," James corrected, his head snapping back to face front. "I want to take her out on a date."

He was blushing a little, which was most unlike him. James tended to talk about the ladies he dated with an ease that bordered on nonchalance. In the seven years Peter had known him, he'd had one serious girlfriend, and that had ended in disaster, both times.

“I thought Nando’s was your date staple?” said Peter, intrigued.

"Yeah, but, this isn't a Nando's kind of date. This needs to be a fancy date. I've never taken a girl on a fancy date, but I know that I should probably pick a fancy, snobby, looks-down-their-noses restaurant, which is where you come in. What restaurants are fancy?"

For the millionth time in his life, Peter couldn't believe that James, who had grown up in a plush townhouse on Holland Park and owned a photograph of his infant self being hugged by Dame Julie Andrews, could be so ignorant to the finer end of London society. 

"I can't believe-" he began.

"Julie Andrews, I  _know_ ," said James impatiently. "Get over that, already. It's not as if she'd recognise me now."

"I doubt she frequents establishments that offer free refills on soft drinks, so I believe you," said Peter delicately. "There are plenty of high-end eateries in the city, though they can be pricey."

"Cost isn't an issue, obviously. It just needs to be good. Really good, yeah? Like, the kind of place that won't let me in if I'm not wearing a jacket. You know what I mean?"

Peter nodded as he ran a finger down a list of potentials. "What style are you looking for?"

"I don't - ow!" he said, though he managed to keep his voice to a loud whisper, having accidentally snapped his own finger with the rubber band. He sucked on it for a moment before speaking again. "Just a regular dinner jacket, I didn't even know they had different styles."

"I'm not taking about the jacket, I'm talking about the restaurant. We've established that you're looking for a fine-dining restaurant, but is there a particular style of cuisine you're wanting for the occasion? Seafood? Fusion? Ethnic? Modern European?" He shook his head at James's blank, dead-eyed stare. "What kind of food does she like?"

"Er," he said, and shrugged. "Chips?"

It's was Peter's turn to stare blankly. James might as well have suggested feeding woodlice to his date. "Chips."

"Yeah," said James, and looked worried. "Don't they do chips in fancy restaurants?"

"You want to take a woman on a date to a fine dining establishment so she can order chips?"

“Not if they aren’t on the menu.”

"Heaven help me," Peter sighed. He turned a page and pointed to a fabulous place on Formosa Street. “I’m going to start you on the classic French style, simple and elegant. No chips, but there should be enough on offer to tempt even the simplest of palates.”

"No, Peter, you know how I feel about the French," said James darkly. "What else is there? What about this?" He pointed to another restaurant on the list. "You've given this place eight stars and listed it under ‘Eastern European influences’, I can work with that.”

“That place has a fourteen week waiting list. Can you wait fourteen weeks?”

“What?" He pulled a face. "No, I need it for Saturday night.”

“Saturday night? You think you can get a reservation at one of London’s top eateries for two nights from now?”

"Why couldn't you?"

Peter sighed heavily, again. Perhaps he had been wrong. James didn't seem emotionally ready for the world of haute cuisine. "I'm sure she won't be too unimpressed by Nando's."

"No Nando's, this has to be great, alright?" James looked over his shoulder again, though for the life of him Peter couldn't understand why, because only Lily was within earshot. "This is a special woman, yeah? I've been in love with her for, like - actually, that's not important. It just needs to be great because she deserves better first date than a Nando's."

Peter blinked. "You're in love?"

"Ye- no, I was exaggerating. And that's not really the point," said James impatiently. "Your name is gold with all of these restaurant owners. Can't you pull some strings or call in a favour or threaten a negative review or something?"

"Since when have you been in-" he began, but James shushed him, and he lowered his voice again. "Sorry, since when have you been in love?"

"I'm not and I don't know. I'm not Evans, alright? I didn't note the time and date in my calendar, it just happened."

He was shocked by this development. James wasn't even seeing anyone, as far as Peter's detailed notes on the likes, dislikes and potential worries of his friends - something he kept to assist him in being the best Peter he could possibly be - would indicate. He'd suspected for a while that James might have been harbouring feelings for Lily Evans, but James and Lily had dinner in various chain eateries all the time, and knowing Lily's love for cheap pizza and McDonald's breakfasts as he did, he couldn't imagine that she was the type who needed to be brought to a fine dining restaurant. It was most boggling.

"You're not getting back with Isabella, are you?" he began tentatively, but James's horrified expression answered that question for him. "Okay, nope, you're not."

"I haven't seen her in years," said James. "Nor do I ever want to again. Can you get me a table somewhere or not?"

An idea occurred to Peter, though it wasn't a pleasant one. "Well..."

"Well?"

"I've got a reservation in my name for Saturday, as it happens. I was going to bring Helena." James's eyes lit up with hope, and Peter's last morsel of resolve was gobbled away. His dear friend was  _in love._ How could Peter neglect him during such a troubling time? "Though, I suppose your need is greater than mine. You can have the table."

"Aww, Peter," said James, and landed a gentle punch to his upper arm. "You're a proper mate, you are."

"It's at La Gavroche, 8pm sharp. I'll text you the address tonight. You must wear a smart jacket and clean shoes, not trainers. Don't order for her under any circumstances, however you may recommend the Filet de Maigre and the Domaine Claude Chevalier. You will be representing me at this establishment so do  _not_  order a Coke or I will never speak to you again."

"That sounds French," said James. "Is it French?"

"Yes, " said Peter sternly. "It is French. It's also expensive, and elite, and home to some of the best food in London. You'll take it, you'll enjoy it and you'll send your compliments to the chef, unless you want to take this dream girl of yours to a place that makes you bring your order to the counter."

"Do they-"

"No," Peter interrupted. "No. They don't serve chicken fingers."

“Wow,” said James, and ruffled his flyaway hair. “I have to say, Peter, you’re acting a lot scarier than usual.”

“Food awakens the beast in me," said Peter simply. "Everybody knows this."

* * *

James would never have realised his expertise in the art of romantic subterfuge if not for Lily Evans.

Despite all assumptions he’d previously held about himself, he'd found that he was dead good at keeping their relationship under wraps at work. His natural instinct, which was to tell everyone he knew that the woman of his dreams was his girlfriend, was ever present, but he'd managed to curb it by telling a bunch of people he  _didn't_  know. Lily’s neighbour from across the hall, the delivery guy from Francino Pizza and a little old lady on the tube had been treated to the epic tale of their childhood romance-turned-tragedy-turned-romance again, courtesy of an immensely proud James. The old lady had been especially cheered by the story, gave them a boiled sweet each and promised to pray that they would be blessed with many children, which as James pointed out to Lily, meant that their relationship was literally bettering the world.

His mission to secretly arrange their first proper date – a surprise for Lily – without giving the game away to Peter, was a roaring success, and James walked away from their conversation clutching another metaphorical feather to add to his already overloaded cap. He went out to buy a coffee from Costa and when he returned, Beatrice had left for lunch and the officers who had been speaking to Lily were gone. She held out a sheet of paper for him to examine as he approached.

“Door-to-door came back while you were plotting with Peter,” she said by way of greeting.

He stopped walking, about a foot from his desk, and assumed an innocent expression. “I wasn’t plotting.”

“Right, and I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

“You should really trust me more, Evans. I’m hurt.”

“You are my absolute favourite person and I’d trust you with my life, but you were still plotting,” she said, and shook the sheet of paper in her hand. “Take a look at this.”

She looked so beautiful today, her skin luminous, hair shining, wearing that proud, knowing smile she liked to wear when she knew she was on to him, pleased as punch with herself because she knew him well enough to see which way the cogs in his brain were turning. Lily was the most beautiful person he’d ever met, really, inside and out, and she’d  _chosen_  him, plucked him from a pool of millions of men who might have deserved her more, wanted him, trusted him, and would have blushed from neck to forehead if he’d had the cheek to tell her she was pretty right this minute.

James didn’t know what heroism he’d achieved in a past life to have been granted the privilege of affecting her so – though he liked to imagine that he had been a young and brilliant war hero who died protecting his family – but he was very grateful for it.

“As the lady commands,” he agreed. He took the paper from her outstretched fingers and replaced it with a fresh cup of tea. “Here’s your drink.”

“You’re a sweetheart, thank you,” said Lily, and prised the lid from the cup. “So, we’ve got five witnesses in the area who spotted our guys on Tuesday night, including the victim’s neighbour, who saw them getting off the elevator when she was taking her bins out.”

James sat at his own desk, which he had grown much fonder of in recent days, and skim-read the witness statement in his hand. “You’d think a bloke with distinctive facial scars would know to wear a mask before breaking into a flat and beating someone senseless.”

Lily laughed softly into her tea and set it down. “We got a match on the car registration, too.”

“Excellent. One of theirs?”

“Nah, it’s registered to a bloke named Amycus Carrow. He reported it stolen, but not until  _after_  the incident, so I did a bit of digging around on him. Park your gorgeous bum over here and look at this.”

Thank goodness for their three-month long history of shameless flirting, James reflected, as he pushed his chair away from his desk and circled round to join her – even though most of the bullpen had gone for lunch, so only Peter was around, and he was working at his computer with headphones in. Quite by accident, they'd managed to circumvent most of the problems that came with hiding a relationship by acting like a couple long before they’d ever gotten together, which was great, because bringing their usual, playful repartee to an abrupt end would have been extremely challenging. It was already proving difficult to work together all day without kissing her, touching her, or shagging her on his desk again.

But not too difficult, because Lily was a resourceful woman who took pride in finding ways around such barriers. James had, in fact, gotten her off in the ladies’ room not two hours earlier.

Now, though, she was all business. When James halted his chair next to her, Lily pointed at her monitor, where the paunchy, unpleasant face of Amycus Carrow scowled back at them.

"Is he fitter than me?" said James immediately.

Lily bit back a smile and elbowed him gently in the ribs.

"Pay attention to his priors, not his face," she said, and scrolled through his list of accomplishments. “Petty theft, racially-motivated assault, petty theft again, possession, spitting in an officer's face, yet more racially-motivated assault,  _and_  he's got one of those Death Eater tattoos - he's been in and out of Pentonville more times than you could count over the last ten years.”

“Can we link him to Greyback or Avery, though?”

“Just getting to that,” said Lily, arriving at the bottom of the screen. “He’s a Mighty Britain supporter, him and his twin sister. Last time he was arrested was at one of their rallies.”

“Of course he is," said James dryly. "We might as well chuck his name on the NCA list.”

Mighty Britain were a political party – a very small and very backwards political party, that campaigned almost exclusively for the removal of anyone living in the country who couldn’t prove that they were thoroughbred, pasty-faced Brits – led by a bloke named Riddle, who had a voice like an oil slick and a frightening amount of influence over the most narrow-minded in the country. Politically, they were far too extreme to present any real threat, but there was evidence to suggest that Riddle and a number of his cronies were heavily invested in organised crime. James, Lily and the rest of the team had been passing any information they could find from their individual cases to Kingsley Shacklebolt, who headed Organised Crime Command in the NCA, and was running an investigation into the party.

“Already spoke to Kingsley about it - they're not looking at individual assault cases, but he did give me a list of everyone who made a paid contribution to the party over the last twelve months,” said Lily, and opened a tab that held the aforementioned list. “It's got over a thousand names, so I did a quick search. Fenrir Greyback and Julian Avery both made donations back in May. Avery’s an active party member, actually - he contributes a lot. So we’ve got a link between the three of them.”

“You’d think they’d  _try_  to make it hard for us just once, even.”

"We can nail Greyback on the evidence we've got," Lily continued. "And Carrow, if he brought them there and back. Kingsley wants us to give Avery a little leeway, thinks he's higher up in the organisation and might talk on the promise of a lesser sentence. Greyback and Carrow aren't of elevated rank, they're just thugs from what I can see."

"You're primary, so it's up to you. I'll back you up whatever you decide."

Lily reached over - taking care to keep her hand below the top of her desk - and gave his knee a very quick squeeze. "Let's take it to McGonagall after her meeting and see what she thinks."

James nodded in agreement, and yawned, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.

“Tired?” said Lily.

"A little,” he said. In truth, he’d spent the night before in his own flat, without Lily, and hadn’t been able to sleep for wishing she was there, tucked snugly next to him with the covers pulled under her chin. Sadly, Sirius would have smelled a rat if James spent every night at her flat. “Just can't wait to get this week over with."

"I know, right? Bring on an actual weekend," said Lily. They had both worked over the last two. "Got any plans?"

"I've got a date on Saturday night."

"This is the first I've heard of this."

"Well, you're hearing about it now."

She smiled. "Who's it with? Not Orethea Selywn, I hope?"

"Orethea what?"

"Look." Lily pointed at a name on the list. "So many of these names are downright pretentious, honestly. Alastair-Alcott Mulciber, Copernicus Crabbe, Antonin Dolohov, Regulus Black - what were their parents - hang on." She removed her hand from the mouse as if it had burned her. "Regulus  _Black_?"

 _Sirius_ , James thought immediately, but Sirius had left to buy lunch twenty minutes ago, and therefore couldn't have overheard, not unless he had the ears of a supersonic dog, which James knew for a fact that he did not. Lily, meanwhile, had swung her chair around to face him directly.

“Sirius has a brother called Regulus,” she said. “I’m right, aren’t I? I’m not imagining that?”

“You’re not imagining it.”

“There can’t be two Regulus Blacks running around London. This must be him. His own brother, supporting  _that_  party?”

“Looks like it.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”          

“Because I’m not surprised. His parents were both like that, which was why he ran away from home in the first place. Look there." James pointed to another name on the list. “Bellatrix Lestrange, that’s his cousin. I met her once, years ago, and she told me to go back to whatever rat-infested shack I'd come from."

"Did she know that they don't have rat-infested shacks in Kensington?"

"Never got a chance to tell her, Sirius threw a paperweight at her head."

"Fuck," said Lily heavily, and seemed to sink into her chair. She picked up her tea and blew gently on the surface. "Poor Sirius."

"Yeah, his family are rubbish."

"Do you think - bye," she said, nodding to the Superintendent, who had just left McGonagall's office and issued a brief goodbye to the bullpen. Lily lowered her voice a notch. "Do you think he knows about his brother?"

James shrugged.

“But this doesn’t actually  _mean_  he's involved in anything criminal, right?” she pressed on. “He might just support the party’s ideals, and not have a clue about anything else that’s going on.”

"I don't think it makes much difference to Sirius. His younger brother is propping up a group of white supremacists with what should have been  _his_  inheritance. I'm his best mate and if they had their way, I'd be out on my arse immediately."

"I'd beat the living daylights out of anyone who tried to throw you out on your arse," said Lily. "Police officer or not, I'd do it."

"Would you really?"

"As if anyone could bloody stop me."

"You're amazing, you know," he said, and he knew that he was grinning like a fool, but how was he supposed to help himself when the woman he loved was so passionately committed to defending him from racist neo-Nazis? "In a totally above board, non-sexual, workplace-appropriate kind of way."

"Duly noted, Potter."

"Also, I get really turned on when you threaten violence against my enemies."

"That was unseemly, and not fit for work," said Lily lightly, but she smiled at him. "Are you coming over tonight?"

"Am I invited over tonight?"

"Always, my love," she said, and stood up. "Let's go and see McGonagall."

* * *

_It is June 27th, 2015, and James Potter and Lily Evans are about to embark on their first real date as a couple, having spent the past ten days meeting in secret in Lily's flat, eating takeaway food and cavorting about in various stages of undress. James, who normally doesn't pull out all the stops for a first date (to preserve himself from the clutches of those who favour his money over him) has certainly gone above and beyond what would be expected of him today._

Lily's first clue should have come when James told her to ‘get dressed up’ for Saturday, though she could have been forgiven for missing it. James Potter was a man of varied interests and eccentricities, and the phrase ‘get dressed up’ could have any number of meanings. She had once attended a birthday party of his wearing a pretty outfit she’d bought from Zara, only to find James at the door garbed in an elaborate Gandalf costume, utterly scandalised because she hadn’t immediately grasped the context of the verbal invitation he had issued the day before. Under the assumption that Gandalf would not make an appearance during their first date – though James was liable to come up with a mad idea at any given moment – she opted to wear her best dress, with not a pair of fake elf ears in sight.

Her second clue should have come when James turned up wearing an expensive-looking suit, but she was so overwhelmed by just how attractive he was in said suit that she completely forgot to find it suspicious. She also forgot to keep her hands and lips to herself in the Uber until they were halfway through the trip, when she remembered her manners, extracted herself forcibly from her boyfriend’s arms and issued a fraught, panicked apology to the driver.

He and James laughed uproariously at her for the rest of the journey, and he promised to give her a five-star rating for being so amusing.

Once she got out of the cab, she found herself standing in front of a restaurant that she recognised, of all places, from one of her sister’s favourite television shows, and found herself genuinely surprised. Despite the clues she had been given, her stubborn brain had persisted in believing that he was taking her somewhere low key, because fine dining wasn’t really his style.

Fine dining wasn’t her style either – her favourite meal was beans on toast, for crying out loud – but she couldn’t help but feel a little thrill at the thought of eating in such a famous place. Petunia, who had done a poor job of hiding her irritation when Lily told her that she was finally dating James – who was richer than her husband and therefore an unsuitable match for her little sister – would probably die of jealousy if she could see her now.

"This is very fancy, Potter," she said, taking in the restaurant's white sash windows and cast-iron porch. "You know Michel Roux Jr. owns this place, right?"

"Is it? Never heard of her."

"He's a man."

"Never heard of him either," said James, as he shut the cab door. “But good for him, I’m glad he’s doing so well.”

"How'd you get us a table in here?"

“Oh, you know,” he said, with his hands in his pockets, staring aimlessly down the street. "I know a guy."

“That’s very mysterious.”

“I’m a very mysterious man, Evans.”

"Please. You got Peter to give you his table."

He looked at her, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Know everything about everything without any prompting whatsoever?"

“We’ve been together for a week, and this place has a huge waiting list,” she said, pointing at the front door. She was sincerely glad that she’d worn her best dress and given herself a manicure. “It wasn’t that difficult to figure out.”

“Nah, that’s not it.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and gave her a gentle push towards the door, which was surrounded by cheerful, red and purple flowers. “I think you’re the psychic one, not Booth.”

"I think our past holds plenty of evidence to prove that I'm definitely notpsychic, just very, very clever."

"Clever  _and_  modest, is my girlfriend."

"That still makes me more modest than you," she said wryly, on her way through the door.

The inside of the restaurant was as fancy as the most discerning of critics could have desired. The dark green walls were hung with expensive artwork - Lily spotted a Picasso hanging a few feet away from their table - the carpet was the old-fashioned kind that a wealthy gran might own, and the tables decorated with elaborate sculptures made from re-purposed cutlery. The waiting staff rushed around wearing perfectly pressed suits to the gentle strains of classical piano pieces, and every diner in her line of vision was drinking wine. Wine was everywhere to be seen - in fact, Lily couldn't see one occupied table that didn't have a bottle on display.

To Peter's credit, their table was a cosy little booth, tucked away at the back of the restaurant and bathed in soft, warm light, and Lily couldn’t have asked for a more romantic setting. Hilariously, the menu was written in French, and the look in James's eyes when he realised it would have made the entire date worth her time and trouble even if the rest of the evening turned to disaster and they both ended up with food poisoning.

“ _French_ ,” he said weakly, once their host had seated them, taken their drink order and rushed off to accomplish some other task with startling efficiency. “Why did I let Peter send us here?”

“Because you had some grand idea about taking me to a snobby place for our first date, so you put the decision in his hands,” she replied, with a delicately raised eyebrow. “Stop me if I’m wrong, but I know I’m not.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’ll have to get over your aversion to France at some point, you know. It’s not France’s fault that you believed a Disney movie was real.”

“If that were true, why did Disney put one of their theme parks in France?”

“I’m not exactly tight with the Disney executives, but I’m going to assume that personally offending you wasn’t on their agenda,” she said, her eyes skimming through the selection on offer – or rather, through the prices. She and James could have gone for two meals at one of their regular haunts for what this place was charging. “Anyway, the menu has English translations, so you can't go ordering snails by mistake."

"If you order snails on purpose, you're  _still_  making a mistake," said James, who was frowning at his menu. He pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger. "Peter said to recommend something-"

"What does Peter think you're doing here, anyway?"

"Going on a very important date with someone who isn't you. It was a filet of something, I think? Why couldn’t he just tell me in English?"

"Filet-O-Fish?"

"Don't mention McDonald's when I'm trying to concentrate, it'll just make me hungry."

"Lucky for you, we're sitting in a restaurant."

"A  _French_  restaurant," said James darkly. "Where I may or may not end up eating snails by mistake, and then I’ll _die_ of sadness and you’ll never get over me."

"If you 'accidentally' order snails, I'll know you did it on purpose to give yourself a good story for the next total stranger you choose to discuss our relationship with."

He laughed at that, loudly enough to attract attention from their people at the table next to them, but Lily’s personal philosophy was firm in its belief that making James Potter laugh was one of life's greatest joys, so it didn't bother her in the slightest. She beamed proudly back at him, and he set down his menu.

"You're very distracting, Evans," he said, smiling at her with a look in his eyes that could only be described as adoring, and for the millionth time in a week she wanted to pinch herself because  _how_ had she been lucky enough to get a second chance with this man? "How am I supposed to pick something from this impossibly French menu with you distracting me?"

"I'm sure we can both manage sitting in silence for a couple of minutes."

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "It wouldn't work, you're distracting enough just sitting there. We'll need to build a menu fort around your head so I can't look at you at all."

"That'll endear us to the staff."

"So we'll pay them off. I can do that, you know. I'm actually very wealthy."

“Oh, are you now?”

“I checked my bank balance the other day, right? And there was all this _money_ in there,” he said, grinning at his own silliness. “I was just as shocked as you are, I know, but then I thought – why not take Lily to a snobby restaurant and eat something I can’t pronounce?”

“If I need to put an embargo on rich person jokes, I will,” she warned him. “And I hope you know that you really don’t need to bring me to snobby restaurants to make me happy.”

He nodded. "I know, it's just something I wanted to do for tonight."

"Why?"

“Because I go to Nando’s for first dates – I mean, as a rule, it’s just what I do. I think I went to some other restaurant one time, because the girl picked, but it was a vegan place so I walked right back out-“

Lily snorted into her complimentary glass of sparkling water.

“—but anyway, you’re not –" His ears were starting to turn red. "I mean, you’re more important to me than any other girl I’ve – and I’ve never felt like, well, _this_ , about anyone but you, and I don’t need to take you to Nando’s and get to know each other to know that.”

"I think we're well past getting to know each other at this stage."

"Exactly," said James. "I already know how I feel about you, and I know that you're special, so I wanted to take you to a special place."

She smiled at him, a smile with soft edges, one that only he would ever see. "Even if it's French?"

"Fuck it, I'd go to _actual_  France with you if you wanted, and I'd be dead happy about it."

Lily could have jumped on him, or laughed, she wasn't sure, but they were interrupted by a waiter who had approached to ask if they'd decided on their meal. After agreeing with James that, yes, Lily _was_ the most beautiful woman in the room, he took their orders - turbot for Lily and lamb for James, who ordered with alarming self-assurance, as if he hadn't been completely flummoxed by the menu minutes before.

"I thought you didn't know what to pick?" said Lily, when the waiter departed.

"Oh, I didn't," he cheerfully admitted. "I just picked a meat at random and figured they'd have it."

It was her turn to laugh then, and she did. The patrons at table next to theirs was starting to give them funny looks, which only made it funnier. "As much as I love that you endured a French restaurant for me, we're _definitely_ going to Nando's next time."

"Fine by me," said James. "As long as there is a next time."

"I'm planning on many next times," she promised. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

The look in his eyes - happy, hopeful, hinting at something that hid beneath that shining veneer of confidence, something that might not have been as secure in her affections as he let on - made her heart swell. She was _so_ in love with this clever, ridiculous, generous man, and now that they were together, exactly where they both belonged, she intended to stay that way for the rest of their days.

"Can I get that in writing?" he said. "I'd like to make sure I can hold you to it."

"I can give you something better than writing."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, come here,” she said, and shuffled over in her seat to be closer to him. “I’ve got to tell you a secret.”

“What sec-  _oh_ ,” he said, but the sound of his voice was muffled by her very eager lips. His hands settled on her waist while one of hers curled around his neck and into his hair, the other coming to rest on his thigh, and it was an altogether inappropriate kiss for a restaurant, and thank goodness for booths, and their disapproving neighbours probably _hated_ them and Lily didn't care, because there was nothing better than doing this, nothing at all.

"Oh my days!" cried Peter Pettigrew. "I  _knew_  it!"

Lily unstuck herself from James's mouth like a plunger being pulled from a sink. Lo and behold, there was Peter, standing five feet away from their booth, wearing a vacant, yet joyful smile on his face. Helena Hodge stood next to him, wearing a pink sequinned dress, her jaw clenched with fury. Her hands were clasped so tight around her clutch that her knuckles had turned white.

"Lily!" said Peter.

"Pete," said James.

" _James_ ," said Helena.

"Well," said Lily, and reached for her water again. "You could tell him you were giving me mouth-to-mouth, but he's hardly going to believe that."

"No," said Helena, glaring at her with deepest loathing. "Not unless you were choking on his tongue."


End file.
